


loVe will tear us apart again

by zoetropes



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: 1980s, Angst, Bullies, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Neglectful Parents, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reddie, Slow Burn, hopefully gonna introduce everyone but it starts with just bill-stan-richie-eddie, idk where im going with this but it's just a vague reddie angst fic because theyre all i need, no IT, or at least they don't know about it, this is in the new movie timeline aka they're in the 80s right now, this starts at the beginning of summer 1989 and goes continues as if It was never in Derry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-12-31 22:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 77,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12142899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoetropes/pseuds/zoetropes
Summary: Richie wondered what it was this time, what made them stop Eddie. Their bikes were lying abandoned a few paces away, like they had seen Eddie walking and, perhaps after following him for a while, decided to hop off when he was close enough to catch.Richie guessed it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that his best friend was about to get beat up on pretty bad, and he couldn’t just wait there and let it happen.





	1. Damsel

“Stop it!” Came a familiar shrieking voice from around the bend. “Stop it, you guys, please—! You want my lunch money? Here’s all I got, I swear, come on, I—“

“I don’t want your lunch money,” a lower voice sneered, and there was a whimper from its target.

“Shit,” Richie swore, and pumped his bike pedals harder until he rounded the corner. The road he turned into came to a dead end not many yards in, the forest encroaching on the street edge and threatening to grow through the fence that blocked it on the other side.

Henry Bowers had his hand around the normally pristine, pressed collar of Eddie Kaspbrak; the fabric was now smudged with dirt and something ruddy in droplets. Eddie’s nose was already bleeding, and by the looks in the eyes of Bowers and his gang, who all surrounded the smaller kid, pushing him back into the fence, worse was yet to come.

Richie wondered what it was this time, what made them stop Eddie. Their bikes were lying abandoned a few paces away, like they had seen Eddie walking and, perhaps after following him for a while, decided to hop off when he was close enough to catch.

Richie guessed it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that his best friend was about to get beat up on pretty bad, and he couldn’t just wait there and let it happen.

“Hey, shit for brains!” Richie called, poised on the bike. Their heads snapped around to focus on him. Henry still had Eddie in his grasp. “Yeah, you,” Richie continued. “Four against one, huh? Wow, you’re so brave. He clasped his hands together and flung his head back in his best suburban housewife impression. “My little boy is all grown up! Oh, Henry dear, I’m just so proud, only a true man can hit a kid half his size.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Henry growled, shoving Eddie back and advancing on Richie. “You don’t want to get into this with me, Trashmouth. I know where you live.”

“Aw, you been watching me?” Richie grinned toothily. “Sorry, but you ain’t exactly my type. I like people who look less like a dog took a dump on them, licked it up, and then threw it back up again on their face. You know, you really put the “ass” in “bottom of your class”.”

“You kiss your mother with the mouth, Tozier?” The sparkle in Henry’s eye was dangerous, but Richie didn’t back down. Not yet.

“No, only yours, Henry,” he shot back, and contorted his face again, batting his eyelashes dramatically. “‘Oh, Richie’, she’s saying, ‘we can’t keep doing this! But you’re just so good. I love it when you do that thing where you stick your tongue in my—‘“

“You’d better shut your mouth now, before I make you.”

“Run, Richie,” Eddie gasped weakly from behind Bowers. “He’s got a knife, just go!”

And then Richie could see the glint of the switchblade in Henry’s hand, and something in his throat got very tight. But, true to form, he kept going anyways. “Eddie, old chap, you think a little knife could bring down Richard the Great? What, shall I be burped to my demise by Belch here?” He gestured to the biggest of the bullies, who was beginning to lumber towards him. “Of course not! Keep your wits about you, my damsel, and I shall return when the four-headed dragon hath been slain!” Richie spat as hard as he could, and the glob landed directly on Henry’s boot.

“Get him,” Henry shouted at the others, and they all scrambled for their bicycles.

“Fuck, gotta run, Eds!” Richie twisted the bike swiftly to pedal away, slipping from Henry’s reach as the older boy lunged at him knife-first. “Run like the wind, good steed!”

And he charged off, all four close on his tail, leaving Eddie gaping after him.

“Run, you idiot,” Richie muttered between pants. “Don’t make me fucking die for nothing here.”


	2. The Trolley Problem

It was late in the evening when Richie limped up to his front door, hours after he was expected home. It hadn’t taken long for Henry and his merry band of asshats to catch up with Richie, corralling him into the alley behind the movie theater and forcing him to ride unceremoniously into a brick wall.

They’d gotten him pretty bad, with a few well-aimed gut punches and a kick to the head, but before Henry got a chance to use that switchblade he liked so much the old guy from the theater who sometimes let Richie and his friends into R rated horror flicks barged out and scared the gang off. They didn’t mess with adults. At least, not most of them. Richie didn’t like the look in Henry’s eyes, but Patrick had grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away before he could do anything really stupid.

Henry had stared right at Richie with those dark glittering eyes of his and told him, “You’re dead, Tozier. You’d better watch your back. You’re dead.”

The old guy had told Richie, “You’re a goddamn idiot, kid. I ain’t kidding. Keep your big mouth shut.”

Both of these were sage words of advice, that Richie fully intended not to follow. He’d done what he’d needed to do. He’d saved Eddie, and gotten away with nothing more than a rough beating. Nothing he hadn’t had before at the hands of the Bowers gang.

The real casualty this time were Richie’s specs. He’d just had to get new frames this year because his head had gotten too big for the old ones, and, even though he ones he wore now were clunky and out of style, he knew they still cost his folks a fortune. And now they were broken, snapped in half at the bridge. On his ride home, he could barely read the street signs right in front of him, trying to balance the two halves together on his nose by tilting his head up at an awkward angle.

Now he held them in one hand as he shuffled through his ring of keys with the other, unlocked the front door.

The living room was all fuzzy as he shut the door behind him, which is why he didn’t immediately recognize the form of his father leaning forwards expectantly in the armchair.

“Richie.”

The voice startled him, and with a jump he held up the halves of his glasses, the world sharpening grimly into place. “Dad! Sorry I’m home late, got caught up with friends.”

“Your friends did this to you?” This father stood. “For God’s sake, what did you do to your glasses?”

“There was this ethical dilemma they taught us in school today,” Richie said. “It was like, you got this train, and there’s two tracks it could go on and you gotta decide, and tied to one of them’s this really hot chick, right? But on the other one is like, five sisters, and they’re not as hot, but they’re cute in a nice sort of way, and anyways you gotta kill the one to save the five, right? Even though it sucks and you only wanted to be a conductor and this is a whole lotta responsibility for your young but manly shoulders. You feel me?”

“Do you have any idea how upset your mother is going to be?”

“Dad,” Richie tried. “You see, it was just like that, only the hot chick was my glasses and the sisters were just one persona and not really a cute one at all, except a little I guess, if you squint and it’s dark out, but anyways sometimes the point is you gotta make sacrifices to be a good person.” He puffed his bruised chest out, feeling somewhat proud of his logical reasonings. His father, however, did not respond, and there ensued a great silence. Richie hated silence. “Maybe I’m not explaining it right. You’ve got a train—“

“Stop,” his father said. He regarded him with a tired gaze, and then finally pronounced, “Next time, try not to ruin a good shirt, won’t you?” And then he turned and walked up the creaky staircase, leaving Richie alone downstairs in the dark.

“Goddammit,” Richie swore, staring after him. “Goddammit!” He didn’t really care about being quiet at this point.

He whirled around and fumbled through the dark of his house into the kitchen, where he pulled out one kitchen drawer after another, fumbling blindly for what he needed. He found only little cookie cutters and tubes of food coloring and charred skewers, and he threw these all on the ground. The metal of these last instruments clinked loudly on the tile, the note created by their contact ringing through the house.

“Come down and yell at me,” Richie muttered, still rummaging through the drawers, flinging the occasional cooking tool to the ground. “Come tell me off. Come on.” He glanced every so often at the empty downstairs behind him, the lack of personage here to stop him. “Come on!”

And then he stopped. He found it in his hands, the clunky roll of masking tape. It had been right there in the first drawer, he’d just missed it somehow. He took it and sunk to the ground, laying his glasses gingerly on the floor and taking a long strip of tape, folding it once, twice, three times for good measure around the bridge. He tested it, and, while it wouldn’t sustain another punch, it stayed on his head well enough.

From here on the floor, it was easy to see the mess around him, tools scattered about the floor haphazardly like teacups in a post-bull china shop. He hugged his knees to his chest and looked up at the kitchen ceiling, above which say his parent’s bedroom, quiet and occupied. He knew they’d heard everything. And they hadn’t done a goddamn thing.

Slowly, on his hands and knees, he began to pick everything up, collect it together into a pile, and then replace them all to the drawers in which they lived. He made sure they were all okay, unbroken. Nobody else was going to.

It was late when he went upstairs to his room, softly closed the door, stripped out of his bloody and dirt-stained clothes and crawled into bed. He took his glasses off and set them on his nightstand carefully. They were a little crooked in their reconstruction, but he barely noticed.

“Hey, Richie,” he whispered at the ceiling. “Are you okay? You alright there? You look like shit. Jesus, Richie. You okay?”


	3. Trashmouth Strikes Again

Richie biked to the Barrens the next day, despite waking up more sore than when he had fallen asleep. His chest ached awfully, each panting breath a sharp reminder of his beating as he rode down the overgrown path to their regular meeting place near where the Kenduskeag Stream trickled shallow between rocks.

When he got there, Bill was already sitting on a big rock near the stream. He looked up as Richie dropped his bike on the dry ground near his own, and surprise flashed over his features. “J-J-J-Jesus, Richie, you look like h-h-hell!”

“Heya, Big Bill,” Richie said, shoving his hands in his pockets and making his way over to sit next to Bill. “What’s cracking? You doing that thing again where you sit on a rock and look dreamily into the distance? One of these days you’ll be sitting and the sun’ll hit you just right and this model agent will just stroll up outta nowhere, take one look at you, and say, “We need that little baby face on all our big-time magazines!”” He pinched Bill’s cheek affectionately.

BIll drew away, looking annoyed. “S-s-stop it, Richie, you’re not funny. I’m serious. What huh-happened?”

Richie shrugged. “Saved a damsel, almost got eaten by a dragon, just the usual. How’s your week been?”

Bill crossed his arms. “S-swell. Look, if you don’t want to—“

“Richie?” came a voice from behind them, and they both turned to look at Eddie, who had just arrived with Stan. Eddie hopped off his bike, looking paler than usual and much more, to Richie’s surprise, angry.

“Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie jumped off the rock and landed, with a wince, before Eddie. “How’s the face?”

“You’re an idiot. You’re a dumb stupid idiot, do you know that?” Eddie spat at him.

“I see you’ve been studying up in that good ol’ thesaurus your Mom got you for your birthday.” Richie smirked. “I would counter that I’m more of a brave, gallant, chivalrous hero.” He ticked the words off on his fingers.

Eddie took a step forwards and pushed Richie. It wouldn’t have hurt much, Eddie was nearly a full foot shorter than him, but Richie wasn’t expecting it and the pressure on his already sore ribs stung like hell. He stumbled backwards.

“You know he would have killed you, right?” Eddie continued, staring up at him with eyes all ablaze. “He wasn’t messing around, he would’ve actually killed you, you dumbass. Do you even care? That you could’ve died? That I had to stay up all night wondering if you were alive or not, you inconsiderate piece of—“ He moved forwards to push Richie again, but fortunately Stan darted forwards and grabbed his waist from behind, keeping him back despite the smaller boy’s struggles.

“Hey, take a chill pill, Eds, I’m fine,” said a wide-eyed Richie.

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie said, still struggling. “Don’t you call me that. I’m not joking around here! You suck and I can’t believe—“

“What, that I saved you?” Richie shot back indignantly. “That I’m an awesome friend?”

Eddie dragged a hand across his eyes and Richie realized he was crying. “That you got yourself hurt, for me! You should have just left me there. Now it’s like- like it’s my fault. Stan, get off me, I’m fine.” He pulled himself away, calmer now but still trying to push away the tears with the heels of his palms. “Jesus Christ.”

Richie stared at him, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his shirt. “Eds. Hey.” He didn’t know exactly what to say. He didn’t know exactly what he felt. Stan was staring, and he could feel Bill’s gaze on him from behind. He knew had to say the right thing here. Normally saying things was no problem for him, but saying the right ones? Saying the comforting, sweet thing? Not really his forte. But now the silence was dragging on and Eddie was looking up at him, eyes brimming with tears, and he had to do something, dammit.

“Don’t cry, you baby.” He lifted up his shirt to show the purples and blues scattered across his chest. “See? It’s only a flesh wound.”

Eddie looked at him, mouth agape, his eyes darting back and forth between Richie’s eyes and his chest. “You’re such an asshole,” he finally said, and turned heel and ran away up the path they’d come in on.

“Trashmouth strikes again.” Stan crossed his arms, glaring at Richie. “Great job. You know, the whole way over here he was worried you wouldn’t show today because you’d be laid up in the emergency room.”

“You know how Eddie gets,” Richie said, but he was staring at the place in the green into which his friend had disappeared. “He worries about everything. ’S not my fault.”

“R-r-ruh,” Bill struggled. “ _Richie_.”

Richie sighed. “Yeah. I know.” He set off onto the path after Eddie.

Even given Eddie’s head start, it didn’t take long for Richie to catch up, catching Eddie by the arm before they could reach the main road.

“Don’t touch me.” Eddie pulled away, arms crossed defensively, but he stayed planted warily. “What?”

“You know I’m not good at this,” Richie said. “I’m not—“ he waved his hands around vaguely. “I’m not— look, I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to get you all worried. I just do things sometimes, and don’t really think about them, or how other people will feel.”

“I know,” Eddie said. "Obviously."

Richie sighed. “I just didn’t figure you’d worry this much.”

“Of course I worried. You’re my friend, and I care about you. Why wouldn’t I worry?”

Without another word, Richie pulled Eddie forwards into a tight hug, and for a moment he didn’t even notice the ache in his chest, or, if he did, he felt it for a different reason. “Thank you,” he whispered into Eddie’s ear. “Thank you, Eds. For worrying."


	4. A Night Under the Stars: Part 1

It was the classic set-up. Richie packed a bag, slung in over his shoulder, and on his way out the door called over his shoulder to his mom that he was sleeping at Eddie’s tonight. She took a swig from the bottle, didn’t respond.

It was harder for Eddie. First he had to convince his mom to let him sleep over in the first place, which wasn’t easy considering the multitudinous dangers she insisted were inherent to sleeping in somebody else’s bed. Then he had to tell her that he was sleeping at Bill’s, because they both knew she’d stomach that better. At least at Bill’s it was clean. And Mrs. Denborough checked in on them and made them food and, anyways, Richie didn’t argue when Eddie said that that would be better to tell his mom, since they were lying anyway. Then Richie had to go over to Bill’s house and pick up the phone when Mrs. Kaspbrak called, and do his very best impression of Bill’s mom. Bill didn’t appreciate it much, but it got the job done.

Bill and Stan wanted to come, too, but Stan had a long study session that night for his Bar Mitzvah that he couldn’t back out of, and Bill came down with the flu at the last minute and had to cancel, so when the evening came it was only Richie and Eddie who met with sleeping bags and packs of provisions down by the Barrens.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” was the first thing that Eddie said upon meeting Richie. His inhaler was already in his hand, and Richie could hear the half-empty bottles of pills clattering around in the boy’s fanny pack.

“It’s a great idea,” Richie said. “It’s mine, isn’t?”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Eddie said. His hands tightened around his backpack straps. “You know, my mom heard a story about this guy who fell asleep outside with his mouth open and a cockroach came in it and laid a bunch of babies. I don’t want a bunch of dirty cockroach babies in my mouth, Richie, can’t we just go back to my place?”

“Ooh, back to your place?” Richie waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I thought you didn’t want to get dirty.”

“Shut up, Richie!” Eddie hit him in the arm. “Fine, let’s just go. God, I can’t believe I have to put up with you all night and I don’t even have Billy and Stan here.” He continued muttering to this effect as he hiked ahead of Richie through the brush downstream.

It was a half hour trek to the field Richie had discovered and subsequently deemed perfect to camp in. The sun started to set as they walked, orange rays filtering through the trees and purple skies starting to freckle with stars as the light faded. The rustling of the two boys through the tall grass intermingled with the chirrups of crickets and tonal drones of cicadas and the occasional whir of an airplane passing overhead, and although neither of them talked for a very long time, it didn’t feel quiet or lonely out there.

“Hey, Eddie,” Richie said, his voice sounding all the louder for having been quiet for so long.

“Don’t ruin this, Richie,” Eddie said. He had fallen back and was now walking alongside Richie, picking his way through the grasses. The path had dwindled away fifteen minutes ago, and they were now trampling one for themselves.

“I’m not gonna ruin anything! I-” Richie started, and had to bite his tongue to suppress the argument that was about to bubble forth. He exhaled instead, composing himself. “All I was gonna say is, it’s really pretty right now.”

Eddie looked over at Richie, caught off guard. “Really?”

“Yeah. Look at that.” He pointed at the silhouette of a tree poking up on the horizon. “The tall one. The way the light’s on it from behind, it looks like a shadow puppet person. Like, maybe it’s a really big woman.”

“I’m sure you’d like that,” Eddie snorted.

“Now who’s ruining things? Stay in the moment, Eddie.” Richie nudged him. “Look. Can you see it?”

Eddie squinted. “Yeah, a little, I guess. I just like the colors. If I were a artist I would paint this. I’d love to learn how to paint.”

“Why don’t you, then?”

Eddie shrugged. “Toxins in the paint or something. And it’s messy. Mom would never let me. Anyways, painting is dumb.”

“No it’s not,” Richie says. “It’s not dumb if you like it.”

Eddie blinked. Quietly, he said, “You’re being really nice to me tonight. Why are you being nice?”

Richie rolled his eyes. “Eds, come on. You’re my friend, I’m always nice to you.”

“No you’re not.”

Richie stared down at him for a minute. “Hey. I saved you, didn’t I?”

“Sure. That was mostly just so you could look cool, though, right?”

“What are you talking about?” Richie stopped walking, and then, when Eddie didn’t, grabbed Eddie by the pack and swung him around, forcing him to a halt. “What the hell are you talking about, Eddie? You think I like getting beat up on? You think getting my glasses snapped is fun?”

“I- I don’t know,” Eddie stammered. “I mean, I just don’t buy you were only doing it for me.”

“Why the hell not? If I was getting cornered by the Bowers gang, or if Big Bill or Stan was, wouldn’t you do it for them?”

Eddie looked pained. “I don’t know! I’d like to think I would, but I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d be too afraid. I mean, they went after you and Henry had his knife and I didn’t stop them.”

“Well, that wouldn’t have made sense,” Richie said. “I was saving you. You can’t save me from saving you, or we’d just go in a big circle.”

“So— you’d really do that for anyone?”

“Guess so,” Richie said. “I’d especially do it for you.”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m little, and weak, and can’t protect myself?”

“No,” Richie said, exasperated, and reached out to touch Eddie’s arm. “Because you’re… you. You’re a good person. And my best friend. And because being around you makes me feel like I can be okay. And I never want to see you get hurt.”

“Oh,” Eddie said, and then he was quiet. The last fingers of the sun’s rays reached out to caress Eddie’s face with pink glow. Or maybe Eddie was just blushing. Probably both.

“Come on, kid, let’s go. We’re almost there.” Richie wasn’t sure why, but he reached out and took Eddie’s hand as they walked. Neither of them let go until they got there.


	5. A Night Under the Stars: Part 2

“I never look up at the stars. Why don’t I look at the stars more? This is awesome.”

Richie was lying next to Eddie in the field. They had unzipped their sleeping bags all the way and laid them one on top of the other to make a large mattress-like softness. Even in the night, the hot summer air stuck to them and ensured they didn’t need blankets. There were two empty bags of chips and a scattered deck of playing cards on the ground next to them: the entirety of Richie’s provisions. Eddie supplied the two flasks of water, roll of toilet paper, flashlight, and pillow that they now shared, their hair mingling as they gazed upwards.

“That up there—“ Eddie pointed. “That’s Venus. I think. Or maybe Jupiter. Shoot, I should know this.”

“Which one?”

“That one, right in the middle of the sky. The super bright one.”

“The middle of the sky?” Richie laughed. “The whole point of the sky is that there is no middle.”

“I’m not sure thats— look, right there. Right there!” Eddie scooted his head closer to Richie’s so he could see form the same vantage point, and jabbed his finger at the night. “Can’t you see it? Come on.”

Richie shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. Try explaining it again.”

“What— I don’t know how else to describe it! The really bright one. The big star right above us. Right there! Are you serious?”

Richie burst out laughing. “No, I’m just fucking with you, Eds. Of course I can see it, it’s the bright one right in the middle of the sky.”

“Oh, you asshole. Goddammit, Richie,” Eddie swore, but he couldn’t help but laugh just a little.

“Hey,” Richie said. “Do you ever think about what your life would be like if you lived somewhere else? Like, if you were in Paris or Rome or New York City, you know. Somewhere that’s not Derry.”

“A little, I guess,” Eddie said. “It’s hard to imagine what it would even be like.”

“I dream all the time about getting out,” Richie said. “As soon as I turn eighteen I’m out of here.”

“Where will you go?” Eddie shifted slightly to look at him.

“I don’t care. Anywhere but here.”

“Is here really so bad?” Eddie breathed. They were very close, and Richie wasn’t fully aware of it until there was hot breath on his cheek. He kept staring up, because if he turned he’d be inches away, looking right into Eddie’s eyes, and for some reason the thought of that made him nervous. “I mean, there’s things here you like, right?” Eddie continued.

“All the things I like here would just be better somewhere else,” Richie said. “Like maybe I’ll move to L.A. and get real famous— I’ll be in the movies, or on the radio, maybe— and I’ll buy a huge mansion with a swimming pool in the backyard and you can live there with me, and we’ll have parties every weekend and a lot of famous friends, and sleep in every morning.”

“What about Bill and Stan? Do they live there too?”

“No, could you imagine living with them? Bill and his big dirty feet all over our house?” Richie wiggled his bare toes and they both laughed. “Maybe they’re in the house across the street from ours.”

“And we can eat whatever we want? Maybe we have a chocolate fountain,” Eddie said, starting to get excited.

“Yeah, and you have a big painting room with a million different buckets of colors and some huge paintbrushes and you can just, like, go to town on the walls.”

They both laughed.

“That sounds nice,” Eddie said. “We should do it. In this scenario, do we live alone or are you, like, dating some movie star? Molly Ringwald?”

Richie made a face. “Too ginger.”

“What’s-her-name, from all the romance movies? Meg Ryan?”

“Too cute, she’d outshine me.”

“Okay, how about Cher. You can’t find anything wrong with Cher.”

“Exactly,” Richie laughed. “She’s a legend. What makes you think she’d get with me? Naw, I don’t need some girl living in my house. If I need someone to watch movies with, or practice all my stand-up routines on, or go dancing with, well, then, I’ve got him, haven’t I?”

Richie could feel Eddie’s eyes on him, and finally turned to look at his friend. He was a little startled by how close they were. Their noses were almost touching. He wanted to shift, to move away, but he also didn’t. Eddie didn’t move, so Richie didn’t either.

“Is that weird?” Eddie whispered. “Wanting to just live together like that?”

“Why would it be weird?” Richie said. He knew why.

“I don’t know,” Eddie said, and he knew too.

“I’m glad it’s just us out here tonight,” Richie said. “Not that the others are bad or anything, it’s just… nice.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed. “You know, when you’re not being an asshole, you’re actually kinda cute. Maybe Cher would like you, after all.”

“You think so?” Richie was quiet.

“I think Cher would definitely want to be your friend. I think you and Cher would be really good friends.”

“How would I tell? If Cher ever wanted to be… more. Than friends. Maybe Cher would like me, but feel like she couldn’t tell me. Because she’s… you know, Cher.”

“It might be sort of scary for her to tell you. Because you and Cher are such good friends. And, y’know, maybe Cher doesn’t even know whether she likes you or not because she hasn’t ever liked somebody like that before and what’s the difference between friend-love and like-love anyways?”

“I think it would be pretty scary for me, too,” Richie said.

“And then maybe she’d be worried that everything would change. Like, what if you didn’t like Cher back? She would have ruined the whole friendship.”

Richie laughed softly. “I told you, Eds. There’s no way I couldn’t like her. Cher’s a goddamn legend.”

Eddie didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile. “No she’s not. She’s scared, she’s scared all the time. Why… why am I like this? What’s wrong with me, Richie? Why am I so scared?”

Richie put a hand on Eddie’s cheek, and it was warm. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Jesus, I’m scared. I’m terrified.”

“Really?”

“Really. I promise. I’m shaking right now. Feel it?” He lifted his hand slightly and they could both feel it tremble against Eddie’s skin before he placed it gently back on Eddie’s cheek.

Eddie nodded, gave a little shaky sigh. “This is real. This is happening.”

“It sure is,” Richie said. “You okay? ‘Cause if you don’t want this, or we’re going too fast or anything, or you’d rather not, that’s totally fine by me, and I don’t mind—“

“Shut up, Richie,” Eddie said. “For once, just— shut your mouth.”

And Eddie kissed him.


	6. Monkey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, all!! i just want to say that i am stunned by the amount of support and love i am getting on this. thank you all so much for your kind words, you are the reason why i do this. :) <3 i have been trying to release at least a short chapter every day. i don't know how long i can keep that up what with classes and homework, but i will do my best! there's still more i want to do with this story (be warned). anyways, i just really wanted to thank you all for everything you've said; it means a lot to me!  
> now, without further ado, read on:

Richie returned home in an extraordinarily good mood. He took a shower, washing the dirt off his feet and the burrs out of his hair. He was well into a quality rendition of Like A Virgin when his mother pounded on the door to the bathroom and told him to quiet down, already.

He fell into silence immediately, and before long the water began to run cold. He turned the shower off, shivering. He recognized his mother’s tone of voice. It was the one she always used when she’d had one too many.

Richie dried off and got dressed, perched his taped glasses on his nose, but his heart was pounding in his ears the whole time. His feet were cold on the bathroom tile. He smeared his hand across the mirror to clear the fog and stared at himself. 

“Be cool, Richie,” he whispered. “You’re good. Everything’s great. You had a swell night, and now you’re just gonna go out and see how your old lady’s doing. Nothing too hard, huh? Now buck up, soldier.” He straightened, raised his chin, and brought a solemn salute to his forehead. 

His mother was in her room, sprawled across the bed. The bottle was nowhere in sight, but Richie swore he could taste the stink of booze in the air. “Jeez, Mom, turn the fan on, won’t you?” He crossed to the window and switched on the AC unit; it rattled to life and the breeze from it tickled Richie’s neck.

“Come sit by me.” His mother patted the bed next to her. “Come on.”

Reluctantly, he sat, but his body was tensed, and he fidgeted with the edge of his shirt, staring down at it. “What’s up?”

“I miss you, Richie. We never talk anymore. I feel like you’re growing up, and I just… don’t know you anymore.”

Richie’s hand curled into a fist around the shirt hem, but he kept his voice light. “‘Course you know me, Mom. We’re talking right now, aren’t we?”

“I never know what’s going on with you,” she said. “Like today, today you come home with broken glasses. What happened out there? Did those older boys hurt you again?”

“That was last week, Mom.”

“What?”

“My glasses have been broken for a week.”

She shifted, sighing, seeming unwilling to register this fact. She changed the subject instead. “You know, I get worried. Boy your age, you should have real friends.”

“I do have real friends. I love my friends.”

“What about a little girlfriend? I never see you with any girls.”

“I don’t— I’m fine, I don’t need a girlfriend. Really, Mom, I’m okay. Everything’s fine.”

“It’s the summer. You should be out having fun with girls at parties. How come you never get invited to any parties? I was always out when I was your age, especially during the summer.”

“I have lots of fun with my friends. We go to the movies and bike around, we go out a lot. We don’t need to go to parties.”

“Maybe you’d get invited to more parties if you were more friendly, Richie. Can’t you try a little harder? I know the kids at school are tough, but I’m tired of hearing from your teachers about your behavior. Great grades, they say, but no discipline. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I didn’t discipline you enough as a child. I don’t know. Promise me you’ll try harder.”

“Sure, Mom,” Richie said. He pulled on his shirt. It was a button-up, a short sleeved hawaiian, and he stared down at the patterns on it, the bright colors mesmerizing him. He imagined he was in a jungle. He was a monkey in a big jungle and when the tigers came he would swing up into the trees and they couldn’t reach him and they’d prowl around but eventually they’d go and he’d just stay up there forever. That’d be nice.

“It’s nice to talk to you. I never see you,” his mother said. 

“No,” Richie said quietly. “You don’t. You never see me, do you? Jesus, Mom, I broke my glasses a week ago. I came home black and blue. Did you even notice? I didn’t come home last night. Told you I was going to Eddie’s. I didn’t go to Eddie’s, Mom, and I didn’t go to Bill’s either, I went into the Barrens and slept under the stars. What if I’d never come home? What if some guy had picked me up on the side of the road and kidnapped me, or Bowers found me and finally got his knife between my ribs? How long would it take you to notice? A few hours? A day? Would you ever notice I was gone?” The tears slipped down his cheeks and fell hard onto the edge of shirt he held, wetness darkening the colors in circles where it landed. He got no response. “Would you?”  He turned to look at his mother, crying, pleading. 

She was asleep.

Richie rose to his feet, grabbed a few fistfuls of cash from his mother’s dresser and shoved them in his pockets, and, on second consideration, grabbed his father’s pocket knife from the bedside table.

“Where are you going?” his father’s voice echoed as Richie stormed down the stairs. 

“Out,” Richie replied, and his father didn’t ask anything else. Richie slammed the front door behind him.


	7. Try Harder

Richie rode to Eddie's house in remarkable time, his head like a storm, creating retorts to arguments that hadn't happened yet and creative ways of swearing out Bowers for when he next saw him. These all swirled around his mind like furious winds, overlaid over a mantra he repeated rhythmically in time with the pumps of the bike pedals, through his huffing breaths, sometimes with slight variation: "Try harder. Sure, I'll try harder. Promise. Swear. I'll try harder. 'Course I will. I'll just fucking try harder."

He didn't realize how fast he'd been going until he had to screech to a halt on Eddie's front lawn. He nearly toppled over, the bike unwilling to stop as quickly as he'd tried to force it, but caught himself in time. He abandoned the bike on the front lawn and strode up to pound furiously on Eddie's front door.

Thankfully, it was Eddie that opened it, not his mother. Richie didn't trust himself right then not to say something he'd regret. "Richie?" Eddie said, confusion flickering over his face. “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

“Let’s go out,” Richie said, still panting from his ride. “Come out with me. Let’s go— I don’t know. Somewhere. Where do you want to go?”

Eddie frowned at him. “We just saw each other. What…?” He took another moment to register Richie, his flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, desperate look. “Okay. Give me a minute.”

It took closer to five minutes, but that was still close to a record for the shortest amount of time needed to convince Mrs. Kaspbrak to let him out. Eddie wheeled his own bicycle around front and the two of them set off towards town.

“We’re going to the dentist’s. You’ve got an appointment and I’m taking you and getting a check-up while we’re there,” Eddie explained. “Now, where are we actually headed?”

“Dunno.” Richie stared straight ahead, pedaling furiously. The wind blew his hair back into his eyes and he shook his head violently to get it out. His glasses became somewhat dislodged, but he didn’t stop to fix them. He couldn’t stop now, the wind was too nice, and the feeling of motion, of movement, of going towards something. Or maybe leaving something behind.

“Richie, slow down a little!” Eddie called, and Richie realized that he was half a block ahead of Eddie. Reluctantly, he slowed back to Eddie’s pace, riding the brakes until they were side by side again. 

Eddie was staring over at him. “What’s going on? Where are we going?”

“Who cares? Arcade. Park. Movies.”

“We could see Say Anything,” Eddie said, but his eyebrows were pushed together unmistakably. he was never good at hiding his emotions.

“Not again,” Richie snapped. “If I have to watch that dumbass boombox scene one more time I’ll throw myself off the bridge.”

Eddie was quiet for a moment, and Richie knew his tone had been harsher than he’d intended. “It’s not dumb,” Eddie finally said. “I love that movie. Richie, something’s going on. Just talk to me.”

“No. I don’t want to talk. I want to do something,” Richie said. “Hey, you ever hear the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the minister?”

“Beep-beep, Richie. Come on. I talk to you about stuff.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not you. And today isn’t last night.” Richie couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. And he couldn’t stop thinking it, either: try harder, try harder, why don’t you try harder? “Let’s just go to the arcade, shoot a few zombies.”

Eddie opened his mouth to reply, but both their conversation and their ride was brought crashing to a halt by the sight, as they rounded the corner, of a familiar blue car heading their way, and the figures inside it.

They both braked in the middle of the road. There was nowhere else around, but they both hoped against hope that the gang might not see them. It was a stupid hope. The car pulled over and parked, blocking the driveway of a cute yellow cookie cutter suburban house, and the teenagers wasted no time in jumping out, followed by the driver, Henry Bowers himself.

“However,” Richie said. “In lieu of zombies, this’ll do just as well.” He felt for the Swiss Army Knife in his shorts pocket, fingers closing around it.

“Richie?” Eddie gasped, chest beginning to heave. He fumbled with his fanny pack, rooting through the bottles of medicine for his inhaler. “Let’s go.”

Richie didn’t go. Instead, he got off his bicycle and let it fall to the ground beside him, staring at the gang, who advanced upon the two.

Henry bore a cocky smirk as he walked towards an unflinching Richie. ”Now, if I’m remembering it right, last time I saw you I left you with a warning.”

“Come one step closer, Bowers, I dare you.”

The venom in Richie’s voice gave Henry pause, and he actually stopped in his tracks for a moment, eyebrows raising in surprise. Then he let out a high, startled laugh. “Look who grew a pair! Your boyfriend don’t look so hot, though.”

He was right. Eddie was perched on his bike, inhaler in hand already used once. His voice came out tinny and trembling when he spoke. “Richie, please.”

“Richie, please,” Henry mocked. Patrick snickered loudly. 

“Just go, Eddie. I’ll catch you later.” Richie didn’t take his eyes off Henry. He drew the knife out of his pocket and slowly flipped out the largest blade.

Eddie didn’t move. “No! Stop it, what are you doing? Jesus, Richie, don’t be an idiot.”

“He’s right, don’t be an idiot, Trashmouth,” Henry warned. His eyes skipped down to the knife, and he laughed again. “You gonna stick me with that thing?” He brought out his own knife. It was a switchblade, and with a little press of a button it darted out, silver and seductively deadly. “Go ahead, Trashmouth. Come on, loverboy, cut me. Come on.”

Richie stood there, holding his little knife. It wasn’t even really a blade, just a small Switch Army Knife, the red type with the little screwdriver and toothpick and tweezers. Richie hadn’t used the blade for much except for stealing it once to pass around with the club to carve their names into a big tree in the heart of the Barrens. He wondered if the color of blood would match the hue of the maroon covering on the knife, or be a little brighter. He tried to remember. He’d seen blood before, of course, but usually just his own, and he’d never paid the color much mind.

Eddie finally dismounted so he could grab Richie by the wrist. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to to do this. Please listen to me.”

Richie turned and looked at Eddie, finally looked straight into his eyes. He knew that look of desperation. God, he hated how it felt, looking at Eddie like that. So he didn’t. He looked down at his shoes. And then up at Henry. 

Henry locked eyes with him, and a terrible smile spread across his face. “Funny look in your eyes, Tozier. You wanna kill me or kiss me?”

And that was it. Just with those words, Richie tore his arm away from Eddie and hurled himself at Henry knife-first.

Patrick and Victor caught him first, of course; he didn’t even get close. Patrick twisted his wrist sharply and he cried out as the knife dropped to the ground. Next thing he knew, Belch was on Eddie too, one large arm enough to hold back Eddie’s struggling body.

“My inhaler,” Eddie was saying, grabbing for the little item Belch was holding high above his head. “Give it back, I need that! I need it!”

Henry advanced on Richie until he was very close. Too close. He pressed the knife against the side of Richie’s cheek. Not hard enough to piece the skin, not quite, but all of a sudden Richie found it very hard to breathe.

“Not so tough now, are you?” Henry whispered. He was smiling. He drew the knife down across Richie’s skin playfully, not cutting him, just tracing designs. “Brave little boy, thinks he can play with the big kids. What, nothing to say?”

Richie opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He hardly dared to tremble. The knife was right there, cool and ever so sharp against his cheekbone. He had never felt afraid like this before, never, and it was only half because now the knife was drawing closer to his eye. It was also because of the cries he could hear, the little shouts from Eddie, and he couldn’t even look over at him, see what was going on, he was just suspended here, face to face with Bowers, and he couldn’t say a word. And it was his fault.

“Maybe,” Henry pondered, “I like you better this way. Not talking. I could fix that.” The blade came to rest on Richie’s bottom lip. A tear slipped down Richie’s cheek and dropped onto the road. Still he could not move.

“Henry?” came Victor’s voice from above Richie’s right ear. He was quiet, unsure.

When Eddie’s voice rang out, he was not. “Last Friday night, Henry.”

Henry’s head whipped around. “What?”

“I— I saw you shoot a squirrel. Down by the railroad tracks. I know it was you. You shot it and then just stared at it for a really long time. You didn’t see me, but I saw you.”

“So what?” But there was something strange in Henry’s eyes, something unraveling.

“So, your dad goes to my pharmacy to buy cigarettes, is all. And I’m just wondering what he’d think about you using his gun.” Eddie stared him down defiantly. 

The cold glancing delight of the blade finally slipped away from Richie’s lip, and he found himself able to breathe again, shallow gasps.

“You’re not gonna tell him,” Henry said, moving towards Eddie.

“No,” Eddie said quickly. “Not if you let us go. Just let us go, Bowers, and we’ll stay away from you and I won’t say a word.”

“Henry?” Belch echoed.

“Or I could cut your tongue out.” Henry held the knife out. “Both of yours.” 

“Oh, like that wouldn’t be suspicious,” Eddie said. Richie could see the tremble in his friend's hands, but only slightly. “Here, in the middle of the road? Just leave, and I swear, I’ll never tell anyone.”

Henry’s eyes flitted from Eddie to Richie and then back again. And then, after what felt like an eternity, he gave a short, curt nod, and the boys were both released, pushed onto the asphalt.

“You’d better hope I don’t see you again this summer,” Henry hissed. “Either of you.”

“Wait,” Eddie said weakly. “My inhaler, I—“

Belch snorted and pocketed it as he walked away. They all hopped back in the car, significantly enthused than when they had come, and drove away, but not before Henry had shot them a glare. It was a victory.

Richie didn’t feel victorious. “Eddie…”

“I told you I didn’t want to be here.” Eddie rose to his feet. “I told you, I told you I didn’t want to do this, and you didn’t listen. You never listen to me. Jesus Christ, Richie, we could have both died.”

“Eddie,” Richie tried again, and he couldn’t seem to stand up, so he just sat there. “Eddie, I’m sorry. Eddie.”

“No. Not this time, Richie.”

“ _Eddie_.”

But Eddie was already grabbing his bike, pushing off, pedaling away.


	8. Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the short chapter! my schedule today is wild, but since i posted a double-length chapter yesterday hopefully this will tide you over until tomorrow. :)  
> ~ this one is for my avocadotoes <3 thank you lila and mia for your support ~

Richie was numb. Nothing in the world mattered, nothing but Eddie, Eddie biking away, Eddie leaving him, Eddie almost gone now.

He unfroze. “Wait!” he shouted, and took off on foot. No time to grab his bike now, Eddie was almost at the stop sign at the end of the block. “Please let me talk to you.” Richie screamed, feet pounding down the pavement.

Eddie stopped. He looked left. He looked right. He looked back. And he crumbled, and got off his bike.

“Eds, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Christ, I’ve never been sorrier.”

“I know you’re sorry,” Eddie said. “You’re always sorry. You hurt me. You’re hurting me when you do things like this.”

“What do you want me to say?” It wasn’t an attack or retort, it was an honest question. “Just tell me what you want to say to make this better.”

“That’s not how this works! You went out today looking for a fight, and now you’ve got one. So come on. Let’s do this!”

“Stop yelling.”

“I’ll yell if I want to.”

Richie took a step towards him. He could still feel the blade on his lip. “I could have died back there. You saw him, he was serious. I almost just died and you’re yelling at me?”

“I don’t understand why you’re like this,” Eddie said, running a hand through his hair and tugging at it desperately. “Last night under the stars was amazing. Perfect. And then today you go and fuck everything up, as per usual. Why can’t you just be nice?”

“I’m trying,” Richie pleaded. _Try harder._

“Do you actually care about me?”

“Of course.”

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

They were both quiet for a moment, chests heaving, staring at each other like strangers meeting for the first time. “Then show me,” Eddie said quietly. “Tell me what’s going on. Confide in me. Actually trust me, Richie.”

Eddie was giving him a chance. A chance to make this all right, all the words and the bruises and the dumb jokes and the lost inhaler. Just tell him. Say it. Richie took a deep breath. _I think my parents don’t love me. I’m afraid I’m too fucked up for anyone to actually love me. I’m so scared of this. I’m scared all the time too. I love you. You make me feel lovable._

“No, Richie said. “I can’t.”

Eddie’s face flooded with disappointment, and something else. Resignation? “Then you’re an even bigger loser than I am.” He bent to pick up his bicycle.

“Please don’t leave me,” Richie moved to try to stop him, but Eddie pulled away.

“I’m not gonna stick around to watch you commit suicide-by-Bowers. If you won't let me help you, if you won’t even talk to me, then we’re done here. It’s— it’s like trying to take care of a fucking bear, Richie. I can’t do it if you’re trying to kill me all the time.” Eddie sighed, swung a leg over his bicycle. “I don’t walk away. You don’t want me to walk away. Please stop me.”

“I love you,” Richie said. “I don’t know how to say it right, but I love you and I need you right now and I swear to God I’ll never hurt you.” Except he didn’t say it. He didn’t say a word. And Eddie waited, waited, and then, eventually, turned and rode away, and this time Richie let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, also!!! if you like my work, you should check out https://archiveofourown.org/works/12171339 by @louvres and https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156771 by frankenbean, two of my favorite reddie fics that i've read recently!!!  
> also, i promise it's not all bleak. we're getting through it. :P


	9. Lone Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longer than usual chapter today, hope you enjoy! also, with tomorrow's chapter i will release a list of the songs so far for the "loVe will tear us apart again" official playlist!!! it's songs/artists that are referenced, plus some other gems from the 80's that i think particularly relate to their story.

“Hey, Billy Goat.” Richie sat cross-legged on his bed, phone balanced on his knee. He fiddled with the cord, looping it around his index finger. It had been four days since the thing he was decidedly not thinking about, and he hadn’t seen anyone since. He’d biked down to the Barrens a few times, but no one had been there and Eddie hadn’t picked up the phone and anyways he didn’t want to talk to him, so what would the point even be if he had picked up. 

“Hey, R-Richie,” Bill said. There was something strange about his voice, but Richie told himself it was hard to tell those sorts of things over the phone. “What’s up?”

“I was thinking I’d come over. I was biking by Sugarman’s Video today and saw they got some new releases in, so I went in to see if there was anything good, right? And, lo and behold, I now own my own pristine and absolutely gorgeous copy of A Nightmare on Elm Street 5. Looks like there’s something with a baby, and Freddy’s back again, of course. Dunno if it’s any good and I never saw Nightmare on Elm Street 4 ‘cause that asshole usher wouldn’t let me in— said it was too scary for a kid— but it probably doesn’t matter. Plus, it’d be nice to see you. And your mom, ‘course, I’ve been missing the gal.”

“N-not tonight, Richie.”

“What?” Richie frowned. His cord-twirling stopped. “But you’re never doing anything. We don’t have to watch the movie if you don’t want, we could do something else.”

“M-maybe later. Tonight’s not g-g-good.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s fine. Well, uh, say hi to your old lady for me, huh? I’ll be around, you know, whenever you want to. Hang out.”

“Sh-sh-sure, Richie. I’ll s-see you around.”

“Sure,” Richie said, still not sure at all. “Talk to you later, Big Bill.” But Bill had already hung up.

Richie put the phone back on the receiver, and looked at the tape on his bed. It was probably a stupid movie, anyways. He shoved it in his backpack and slipped on a pair of worn converses. He had scrawled lyrics all the way around on the white sides of the bottom, stuff he’d thought was deep at the time and had started just recently to hate. It was fading anyways, with each time he waded in the stream in them or skidded in mud. He was never very good at taking care of shoes, or anything, really.

Richie slung the backpack over his shoulder and headed downstairs, slipping out the back door and riding his bike around the side to the front driveway. He didn’t really know where to go. He seemed to have played out all his usual haunts over the past few days. He didn’t feel like just riding around again, not alone. It just reminded him of what he’d rather be doing, who he’d rather be with. 

Maybe the movies. The movies were good. He could go to the movies and see something new; Ghostbusters II was out. He’d been waiting to see it with the gang because they all saw the first one together and loved it, and spent the rest of the summer trying to decide who was whom. Richie thought it was obvious that he was Venkman, but Stan said he was just saying that because he was the best character. Bill ended up buying them all little Ghostbusters baseball caps from an ad he’d found in the back of a comic. Richie’s was on a shelf in his closet.

Not Ghostbusters, then. Not without the others. He’d just wait and see it with them when they were free. If they were ever free. He didn’t know what had been keeping them all so busy over the past few days, and he didn’t really like to think about it too hard. He’d just go watch some other dumb movie and take his mind off things, and then he’d go home and sleep, and when he woke up in the morning he would call Bill again or maybe Stan and one of them would have to be free this time, and then things would be okay again.

The ride to the Aladdin Movie Theater wasn’t long, and before Richie could get too wrapped up in those unthinkable thoughts, he was pulling up outside. And then he saw them. Bill, Stan, and Eddie. They were together, laughing, in line outside the movies. They weren’t wearing their baseball caps, at least, so he knew they weren’t seeing Ghostbusters II and adding insult to injury, but the injury was enough. Not tonight, Bill had said, and now here he was, here they all were, with Eddie, laughing together. Without him.

Richie thought he should probably stop and give them a piece of his mind. Then he thought of talking to Eddie, facing him for the first time since “the situation”, as he had taken to referring to it in his mind, and he decided it was probably better not to. They obviously didn’t want to see him anyways.

So instead he rode on, past the theater, taking a left into the Derry town square. He didn’t think they saw him. He hoped they didn’t.

“Bunch of squares,” he muttered, in his best Elvis Voice. It wasn’t a very good one, and mostly sounded like his own, but a bit deeper. “They don’t want to swing with you, it’s their own damn fault, boy, it ain’t yours. Just keep on riding.”

He did keep on riding, for a while, anyways. He rode through the heart of Derry, past the familiar spots and into unfamiliar ones, and got tired somewhere around the edge of the little downtown, if it could even be called that. It was a smaller street, with a few apartments on the corner and a record store and a barber’s next to them. He parked his bike on the sidewalk next to the record store, not bothering to chain it up, and caught his breath.

There was faint music emanating form the store beside him, so Richie figured it couldn’t hurt to go in. Maybe they’d have some water there. Probably not. At least they’d have records and cassettes. Richie went inside, brushing the sweat off his forehead, and wandered to a random section of the records, skimming them. He decided that music was a better friend than those assholes back at the movies. At least music couldn’t leave you. And you couldn’t hurt music. And music wasn’t always trying to help you and not understanding that that wasn’t how it worked, you can’t just fix people, you can’t just save them just through your goodness and moral high ground, it’s more complicated than that and it’s hard to say the right things sometimes, or any things at all, and—

“Wow, you’re really into Depeche Mode, huh?”

Richie whirled around at the voice, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. It was a girl. She looked around his age, ginger and freckled like someone had scattered cookie crumbs across her cheeks. “What?”

She was smiling at him. “Depeche Mode. You’ve been staring at it for, like, two minutes.” She gestured to the records in front of him. He blinked, and they came into focus.

“Oh. No, I was just…”

“I like them, too.” She fiddled with a key hanging from a chain around her neck.

“Hey, you’re Bev Marsh. I know you.”

“You do?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Well, I’ve heard of you.”

Beverly’s eyes narrowed. “Really? What have you heard?”

Richie felt his face heat up, a flush creeping up his neck. “Nothing. Nothing important. What are you doing here?”

“Looking at music, dummy, what do you think?” She leaned back on the shelf of records behind her, gazing at him as if he were an interesting puzzle she was trying to figure out. Richie wasn’t sure he liked it. “I think you’ve got me at a disadvantage. You seem to know tons about me and I don’t know a thing about you.”

“Richie Tozier, at your service, ma’am,” he said in his Southern Gentleman Voice, clasping her hand and shaking it fervently. “Derry’s resident funnyman, although you might recognize me from such flicks as “That Time Henry Bowers Shit In A Boy’s Backpack”, or “That Other Time Patrick Hockstetter Threw A Ball At That Kid’s Head In Gym Class And It Sent Him To The Nurse’s Office Although The Kid Was Really Okay And He Was Only Bleeding A Little”.”

“Oh yeah,” Bev said, laughing. “I remember you now. You’re the one that does those bad impressions.”

“They’re my Voices, ma’am, and I am deeply insulted.” Richie put a hand to his chest, aghast. “I’m the best this side of the Catskills.”

“I’m sure. Hey, aren’t you always hanging around with those kids? Bill Denborough, and those other two?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, dropping the accent and his smile. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s nothing to me,” Beverly said. “Just wondering why you’re here alone in this record store staring at Black Celebration.” At his frown, she laughed. “The album. You really don’t know what you’re doing here, do you?”

“Again, I pose the question: why do you give a shit?” He crossed his arms.

Bev shrugged. “I don’t. You’re just interesting.”

“I’m not interesting,” Richie said. “And for the record, they’re not really my friends.”

“Oh?” She smirked, raised an eyebrow. 

“No. They’re assholes, and I’m kind of a loner. A lone wolf. Sort of a cool outsider guy kind of thing.”

“Yeah, I think to really pull that off you need to be at least 50% more standoffish and 70% cooler. Let me guess, you got in a fight? Friend rip up your comic book?”

“No,” Richie said. “That would’ve been worse. You don’t ever rip up comic books. It’s nothing. It’s personal.” He huffed. She gazed at him. He gazed back stubbornly. He broke first. “Look, it’s not even a big deal. I just got in a fight with Eds— Eddie Kaspbrak, little guy, best friends with his inhaler, used to be best friends with me— and it was really terrible and I’m not talking or thinking about it, but now I think he told all of them and they probably all hate me now, which is maybe-probably-totally warranted, but it sure isn’t great for me, and now I just feel shitty and don’t know how to make it better.”

“Wow.”

Richie cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Well, you really must be desperate if you’re telling all this to a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger, you’re Bev Marsh,” Richie said. “And I’m not desperate. I’m a lone wolf.”

“Obviously.” She snorted. “I don’t know what I can do for you, kid. I’m an ace at getting into fights but I don’t seem to be great at getting myself out of them. But if I were you I’d maybe try starting with an apology.”

“I’m shit at apologies,” Richie said. “And he’d expect me to explain. And I can’t explain.”

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause— he’s mad at me because he thinks I’m keeping secrets from him.”

“Well, are you?” Bev asked.

“No. Well, yes. I don’t know. It’s something I don’t talk about. Ever.”

She looked down at the key around her neck. “I get that. There’s some things you can’t really say, ever. Maybe there’s a way you could say it without saying, you know.”

“Like how?”

“Like… if you can’t tell him that thing, don’t tell him, but at least tell him why you can’t. He probably just wants to know what’s going on with you because he loves you, and when you love someone you worry about them.”

Richie blinked. “He doesn’t love me. I don’t love him.”

Bev smiled crookedly. “Didn’t say that. I just think that if you want him back, which it seems like you do, you gotta show him you care. Do something that’s selfless, like really for him, not you. Something that tells him you do love him, but things just get complicated sometimes.”

Something occurred to Richie as he watched her, listened to her talk. “You’re a really good person.”

Bev burst out laughing. “You don’t know me.”

“No, you are, I can tell. Why don’t you have any friends?”

“What?”

“Come on, I know about you,” Richie said. “Everyone hates you. It’s fine, they hate me, too. But you’re, like, actually cool, and nice, unlike me. Why don’t you have friends?”

Beverly shifted, and for the first time looked uncomfortable. “Would you believe me if I said I was a lone wolf?”

“No.”

“I guess I just don’t get along well with most people. Maybe I’m a bit much for some of them.”

“Well, not for me,” Richie said. “The day Richie Tozier doesn’t know how to handle a girl is a dark day for the US of A.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve been handling armfuls of girls.”

They both laughed. “Well, you’re welcome with me any…” He stopping speaking without meaning to. His eyes were fixed on the cassette rack just behind her. “That’s it.” 

Beverly frowned. “What’s what?”

“Move!” Richie insisted, and pushed her aside unceremoniously. His hands closed around the tape. The perfect tape. The answer to his problems.

“Miss Marsh, my dear, you’re a genius,” Richie said, and smacked her a large kiss on cheek. “You can come be a lone wolf with me any time, darling.”

“Wh— Tozier!” Her wide eyes followed him as he slammed some bills on the counter and turned to rush out of the store.

He turned back with his hand on the door. “You know where the nearest pawn shop is?”

“No. Figure some things out by your own damn self,” Bev said, but a smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

“Thanks, Beverly.” Richie grinned. “I’ll see you around. That’s a promise.”


	10. That Song

First Richie stopped at home, pulled out the box of those his dearest possessions, his comics, and struggled downstairs with them. When he managed to fit the relatively small box into the front basket of his bike, the thing was in danger of tipping over until he positioned himself on the seat. Then it was off to the comic book store.

“You’ll take care of them, right?” Richie asked, for the fourth time, his hand hovering over the box protectively. “These are mint, and vintage. You’ll keep them nice.”

“Yeah, sure, kid,” the guy sighed. He was chewing gum, sticky and gross, and when he reached over to take the box Richie had an Eddie-like spasm of fear for a moment. 

“Wait!” He grabbed it back, pulled the lid off and rifled through the issues. “Hold on. I forgot, there’s one in here I can’t…” He finally found it, drew it out. “Not this one. It’s not old, anyways. You don’t want it. Sorry.” He shoved the Real Ghostbusters issue #1 into his backpack. It had only come out last year, but it was special. Well, they all were. But they were in perfect condition, and they would sell for enough at the comic book store to get the cash he needed. 

Next was the pawn shop. He biked over as the sun set, and the fading rays reminded him of another night. His bike felt lighter, but it wasn’t in a feeling of absence. Rather, it felt like an unburdening, maybe a sort of new beginning. He sure was gonna miss that favorite Spiderman issue, but maybe it was worth it.

The bell jingled as he entered the pawn shop. This was the part of town where he made sure to lock his bike up outside. The woman at the counter’s eyes flickered lazily over to him. “What do you want?”

Richie looked around. There were shelves, many of them, stacked with electronics and jewelry and handbags and, on one, a nice-looking guitar way out of his pay range. There was a lot here, a lot of relics of peoples’ lives, and he wondered who in Derry each belonged to, and why they chose to sell them. He didn’t linger on the wedding bands and antique sewing machine, though; he knew what he wanted, and he spotted it almost immediately. “That,” he said, and pointed.

The woman shrugged. “Alright.”

It cost him a little more than he had, but Richie was a natural haggler, and he bartered until it was a few bucks under his price limit. He hadn’t made a ton off the comics, but that combined with the money from mowing the neighbor’s lawn and pet sitting that old lady’s cats that one time totaled up to a reasonable sum, and it was painful to slide the cash over the counter. He rarely, if ever, spent that much money at once.

“It works, right?” He asked, staring at it in front of him. “It’s not broken or something.”

“It works,” she confirmed, counting the money out. “Here you go.” She slid his change back, and he tucked it into his back pocket, grabbed his contraption off the counter. It was heavier than he’d thought it would be. He wished he worked out more. He hoped to hell this worked. 

The bike ride back to Eddie’s was the longest. Maybe because it was in the darkness, his path lit only by the pools of white cast by streetlights and the glow of the stars above. Maybe because his heart was pounding loudly in his ears, a pulsing rhythm of anxiety and _I swear, I’m trying my hardest now, I really am_.

He let his bike drop to the ground, and clambered off. His backpack straps were digging into his back. He hadn’t really figured out how to transport it, so he’d shoved it awkwardly sideways into the backpack, the top of it sticking out the whole way over. He slung his pack off now and pulled it up, hefted it up and balanced it on his knee.

He opened the little panel on the side of the boombox and slid the cassette tape in. 

_Dear God,_ he thought, _if you’re real, if you’re listening, please let this work. Please let me not be making a fool of myself. Please…_

The first few notes of the song blared, louder than he’d been expecting. The lady was right, the thing sure did work. Richie decided loud was fine, and as the drum beat he lifted the boombox above his head and stared defiantly up at Eddie’s window. And he waited.

_ “Love, I get so lost, sometimes. Days pass and this emptiness fills my heart…” _

Richie swallowed. His arms hurt. This looked so much easier when John Cusack did it.

_ “When I want to run away, I drive off in my car. But whichever way I go, I come back to the place you are…” _

Come on, he thought. Come on. Please. Just open the window. Just see me. Come on.

_ “All my instincts, they return. And the grand facade, so soon will burn…” _

Maybe he should put it down. His aching arms certainly wouldn’t mind. Jesus, this was so dumb.

_ “Without a noise, without my pride, I reach out from the inside…” _

The second story window opened. Eddie stuck his head out. 

“Richie?”

“Eds,” Richie said, and suddenly his arms didn’t hurt so much anymore. “Eddie! Eddie, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. I want to talk to you.”

“You’re… you’re doing the thing." Eddie gaped. "You hate that scene. Why are you doing that?”

“Because you love it.” Richie said. “And I love you.”

Eddie stared at him. He was pale, his hair disheveled, and he wore a little blue striped bathrobe. He looked so quintessentially Eddie, and, dear God, Richie wasn’t lying. He loved Eddie's dumb smile, and the way you could hear him coming from a block away by the jangle of pills in his fanny pack, and the way his voice broke when he was really excited or upset and started shouting about things. Richie loved hearing all the different infections you could get from wading in dirty water, and the way Eddie always kissed his mother before he went out, and Richie loved the things that made Eddie a loser, he loved those things the most.

“You don’t know what that means,” Eddie said.

“Yes, I do. I love you.”

Eddie swallowed. Behind them, Peter Gabriel was singing about the light and the heat. “Jeez, Richie,” Eddie said. “Turn that thing off and get in here.”

“Oh, thank God,” Richie said, and put the boombox down, stopping the song. “I hate that goddamn song.”

Eddie grinned. “Sure you do.”


	11. Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's yom kippur, the day of atonement, and although i wrote this yesterday it seems fitting. hope you enjoy!

Eddie let him in through the back door, and Richie thanked him loudly and overly profusely until Eddie shushed him, hissing, “Shut up, Mom’s still asleep!”

“Man, your Missus can sleep through anything,” Richie replied, not particularly quiet, and was rewarded with another hush. “Hey, you don’t mind if I leave all my stuff on your lawn, right? ‘Cause I already did.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, as long as you be quiet, Richie.” Eddie took his hand and led him up the stairs to his bedroom, closed the door quietly behind them.

They sat cross-legged on Eddie’s bed opposite each other, and were suddenly plunged back into the awkwardness that been remarkably absent for the past minute.

Richie took a deep breath. “So—“ he started, at the same time that Eddie said, “Well.”

“I can go first,” Richie offered.

“No, I should,” Eddie said. He looked down at the white stripes on his fluffy blue bathrobe, tracing the lines with a small finger. “I’m sorry, Richie. I’ve felt awful ever since that day about what I said, just terrible, really. All the others could tell I was really upset and I didn’t tell them what was going on, of course, but I think they knew it was something to do with you, so they took me out for a cheer-up ice cream and movie without you but it wasn’t their fault, really, and I felt just awful the whole time.”

“Well, I’m glad I could make you feel so awful,” Richie said. “It’s my one true talent. I’ve been thinking of pursuing it professionally.”

Eddie gave a grudging little laugh. “Really, though. You were freaked out that day, we both were, and instead of helping you I got upset, and I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t true, anyways. You don’t fuck everything up. That was mean to say. And you’re not a loser.”

“Yeah, I am,” Richie said.

“Shut up, Richie, and let me get through this.”

“Sorry.”

Eddie took a deep breath. “I don’t always know what’s going on with you, but I want to. I want you to tell me things, and it hurts me when you don’t. It makes me feel like— I don’t know, like you don’t care about me enough to let me really know you.”

“Eddie,” Richie cut in again. “I know you probably wrote this all out and practiced it in front of the mirror or something, but you’ve gotta let me talk here. Stop apologizing for shit. One, this is all mostly my fault, and I didn’t come here to make you apologize for a bunch of stuff that I’m not even mad at you for.”

“But—“

“Two,” Richie continued, ticking it off on his finger. “I do care about you.” He dropped his hand. “I do care about you. So much. I wouldn’t have sold all my comics to buy a stupid goddamn boombox and hold it outside your window in the middle of the night if I didn’t care about you.

“You sold your comics? Richie!”

“Shush, your mom’s asleep. Look, Eds, there’s… there’s things I don’t know how to talk about. I know it’s hard to believe, but sometimes I’m not very good with words. Sometimes I say things and they don’t mean what I want them to mean, or sometimes I’m not even sure the words exist at all. You know? And there’s some things in my life that…” He swallowed. “…Scare me, I guess? And it’s like, if I talk about them, then they’re real, and if they’re real, they can hurt me.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Eddie asked softly. His gaze was soft, too. Everything soft. Richie wanted to hug him, because he looked so soft and worried and sad. Richie wanted to tell him it was fine, nothing was really wrong, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, too. You get this look— you have it right now!— where I know you’re freaking out inside. You’re not half as smooth as you think.”

“I never said I was smooth.”

“I just never wanna be the reason why you get that look, Eds.”

“Jeez, we worry about each other way too much, don’t we? It’s a wonder we get anything done at all.” Eddie smiled. “It’s like that thing you said, back in the Barrens that one time. What was it? “You can’t save me from saving you, or we’d just go in a big circle.” It’s my turn to save you. If you’re okay with that.”

Richie sniffed. “You’re such a sentimental sap.” He laughed, a little hiccuping laugh right on the verge of tears. “Goddammit, here come the waterworks. Thanks a lot.”

They both laughed. “Come here, you dumb jerk,” Eddie said, and pulled him into the hug Richie had desperately been wanting for minutes. It was every bit as soft as he’d imagined. The thought occurred to Richie that maybe he’d wanted to hug Eddie, but he also sort of had wanted Eddie to hug him.

Aw, shit, and now he was crying. “I’m so scared,” Richie gasped, words partially muffled in Eddie’s fluffy shoulder. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to just go home and be okay. It’s like I’m here with you, and everything’s— I don’t know, everything is soft and pretty and I feel like singing, like I’m in a fucking musical or something— everything’s okay, and good, and then I have to get on my bike and ride home and lay down on my goddamn bed and everything’s just silent. And I don’t know if I can deal with that. Some nights I’m just staring up at my ceiling wondering if I’m gonna just go fucking crazy, it’s so quiet.”

Eddie pulled away, unsticking Richie from his shoulder, but kept his hands on Richie’s arms. “You want to stay at my place tonight? Would your parents let you?”

“My parents wouldn’t notice, Eds.” Richie couldn’t stop himself from shaking in Eddie’s arms, a shivering, sobbing sort of shake. “That’s the beauty of the thing.”

“Then you’re with me. And it doesn’t have to be quiet. We can talk all night, if that’s what you want.” Eddie’s hand strayed up to Richie’s cheek. “Okay?”

Richie nodded, a smile trembling across his face. “Yeah, okay. You sure you wanna make that offer? ‘Cause you know I’ll take you up on it. Trashmouth can go on for hours.”

“I don’t mind.”

Eddie’s hand was cool against his cheek. “Can I…” Richie bit his lip. He wasn’t sure how to say it. Somehow, this complicated thing was the easiest in his life, and he didn’t want to make it wrong. “Can I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


	12. Falling

“I don’t know how you conned us into doing this,” Stan muttered, struggling to fit his foot into the roller skate.

“If I r-r-recall, he f-found out about our t-trip to the movies, and we felt g-guh-guilty.” Bill finished lacing his skates, and rose to his feet, gliding to the cubby to store his shoes. Of course the legendary Big Bill was good at roller skating. What else did Richie expect?

“Guilt is one thing,” Stan said. “Willingly sticking our feet in these torture traps is another.”

“Come on, you absolute lame-asses!” Richie was already on his feet, skating back and forth in front of the bench on which Eddie and Stan were sitting, struggling to get their skates on. Richie wasn’t particularly graceful, preferring to crash into walls instead of using the toe stops, and his turns were clunky and not half as graceful as Bill’s, but he enjoyed skating like hell, and he knew Eddie would too, if the kid would just stop freaking out.

“If Mom finds out I went roller skating she’ll flip out. Do you know how dangerous this is? Do we have helmets? We should have helmets. I don’t know how fast you can get going on these things but I know a girl who knows a guy whose sister broke her arm doing derby, and, let me tell you, if I’m gonna break my arm, it’s gonna be from something way cooler than roller skating, Richie!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll break it in the jungle trying to fight off the swamp monster that killed me,” Richie said. He reached out and took Eddie’s hands, guiding him to his feet. The contact tingled, like a million little electric shocks bouncing from skin to skin.

“If I’m dying, you’d better believe it’s not gonna be for Trashmouth Tozier,” Eddie shot back. Richie met his eyes and they both smiled a small, secret sort of smile.

Richie let go of Eddie’s hands quickly and cleared his throat. “Alright. We all ready? You all good? ‘Cause you know, once we get in there, I ain’t slowing down for a bunch of jerk-offs who never learned to skate. And let me remind you, you totally don’t get to complain, because you’re the ones who saw that dumb movie without me.”

“You wouldn’t have even liked it,” Stan said, rising to his feet. “There was a lot of poetry and feelings. You hate movies about feelings.”

“Do not.”

“You do too! Eddie started crying at the end of this one. You would’ve hated it, trust me.”

“Eddie cries at everything.” Richie rolled his eyes. “Eddie cried at Bambi. Eddie probably started crying after he whacked off the first time.”

“Hey!” Eddie interjected.

“Anyways, even if it was dumb— and it sounds dumb, what does “Dead Poets Society” even mean, was it about a bunch of dead poets? How are they a society if they’re dead? We’ll never know— you should have at least brought me so I could make fun of it the whole time. Admit it, you enjoy my witticisms.”

Stan groaned. “Nobody has ever enjoyed—“

“Guys.” Bill interrupted them. He was staring over Richie’s shoulder at the rink. “Who is that?”

Richie spun, nearly toppling over, and saw the object of Bill’s focus. “Oh! That’s Beverly Marsh. Hey, Bev!” he shouted, clunking across the carpet towards the rink. “Record store girl!”

She turned, surprised registering on her features as she spotted Richie. Her face broke out into a wide smile and she switched directions, weaving between skaters to meet Richie at one of the rink’s entrances.

“Hey, Lone Wolf.” She smirked, gliding over to the half-wall and resting her elbows on it, lacing her fingers under her chin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Damn, you’re good.” Richie raised his eyebrows. “You’re better than Big Bill.”

“Who?” Her eyes flickered over, seeming to just see the gaggle of boys behind Richie, and her eyes fastened on Bill. Something flashed across her face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, and Richie was left unsure if he’d imagined it or not. “Oh, hey,” she said to Bill. “I know you.”

“Y-yeah, we were i-in the p-p-puh—“ Bill frowned, trying to force the word out.

“In the play, yeah,” Beverly said, easy as anything, not even a trace of concern or annoyance at his struggle on her face. She tore her eyes away from him for a moment to address Richie. “So which one of these was the one?”

“What?” Richie’s stomach lurched. “What, no, nothing, I—“

“The one you bought the tape for. You said his name was—“

“He’s not here today,” Richie said loudly. “That was just a kid from school. Doesn’t matter. All good. Hey, you guys wanna skate?” He took off into the rink as fast as he could. Real smooth, Richie, he thought. They aren’t gonna suspect a thing.

By the time he made his second lap, they were all on the rink. Bill and Beverly skated near each other, matched in pace perfectly, talking so intently about something that he swore they didn’t break eye contact the whole time he was watching them. Stan was slow, frowning at his own feet, but he made good progress, and Richie bet by the end of the afternoon he’d be matching Richie for speed.

Eddie, however, clung to the wall, thudding his way around at an excruciatingly slow pace. Richie sped up to meet him, and slowed to drift alongside him. “Hey, Eddie Spaghetti. How’re you managing?”

“Fine,” Eddie said, through gritted teeth. “I’m working on it.”

“Jeez, loosen up a little!” Richie tugged on Eddie’s arm, nearly making him overbalance. “You aren’t passing kidney stones.”

“I don’t want to fall!” Eddie flapped his arm, waving Richie away.

“It’s no biggie if you do,” Richie said. “Look.” He took a few steps and none-too-gracefully tripped over himself, landing flat on his butt. “I just fell for you.” He grinned. “And not for the first time.”

Eddie’s eyes darted around nervously. “Stop it. What if they hear you?”

Richie shrugged. “So what? They won’t understand.”

“And what if they do?” Eddie hissed. “Come on, get up, you look like an idiot.”

Richie clambered to his feet like a baby giraffe learning to walk for the first time: awkwardly, but with a gangly sort of charm. “You know, it doesn’t matter that much. We could always just tell them. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s Stan and Bill.”

“What, are you crazy?” Eddie was pale. “You know the worst that could happen. First it’s Stan and Bill, then it’s just a few people at school, then the whole town knows, Henry knows, my Mom—“ He stopped himself, took a deep breath. “I don’t want to mess this up. Let’s just stay where we are, okay? We’re good like this.”

“Yeah, sure. If you care so much,” Richie said with a shrug. It was forced, and he hoped Eddie couldn’t tell. “Doesn’t matter to me. A-okay. Not a problem. Totally—“ He stopped himself. Too much. Overcompensating. Shut up. “Fine,” he finished, and tried his best to make the smile look genuine.

Eddie wasn’t even looking. “Hey, maybe I got it. I think I’m doing it! You gotta push out, not just back.” His face lit up, and it took everything Richie had not to pinch his cheeks or ruffle his hair or do something more, but they were right there in public, and Eddie was right. They couldn’t afford to mess it up, not now.

“I could’ve told you that, idiot,” Richie said. “Come on, take my hand.” He offered it out.

Eddie glanced up at him, confused, questioning.

“It’s fine. Seriously. No one’s gonna think anything. I’m just helping you learn how to skate.”

Eddie slowly took his hand, but not before glancing all around, and checking over his shoulder once to make sure nobody was paying them undue attention.

And so they skated hand in hand in a crowded room, Richie looking over every few moments to make sure Eddie was still alive and vertical, and it felt so right. But then, as soon as they were all done skating and Richie and Eddie left the rink, they disengaged, palms sweaty from the prolonged contact, and they made sure not to touch each other again on the walk out to their bikes. Richie tried not to look at Eddie too much, not more than the others, although sometimes he couldn’t help but steal a glance at the back of the boy’s head as he rode behind him, savoring the way the sunlight glinted and turned strands of brown to spun gold.

And he tried to tell himself that this was fine, this was good, this was what Eddie wanted, and it was what he wanted, too. Derry was a hellhole, and it would eat them alive if it knew. He had seen what sorts of things people wrote on the side of the Kissing Bridge, he had heard the kinds of things kids laughed about. He had laughed, too. And he made sure he still laughed, now, because if he didn’t what would people think? But he licked his lips afterwards and tasted the remembrance of Eddie on them, and every time the laughing got a little more difficult.


	13. Sweet Cheeks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> promise it's not all angst! our babies are still sweet, they're just figuring things out.

Richie loved the arcade. It was in large part the noise, the constant whirring and beeping and shouts and laughter. It drove some people crazy, the overload of sensory stimuli, but Richie thrived in it. It was like a grand symphony, every console and chattering child an instrument in the orchestra. He loved the games, too, and he was damn good at them.

Today, he and Stan were facing off against each other in Street Fighter. It was the toughest competition Richie had had in a while, but he still eventually triumphed. He always did. It was one of the only things he really thought he was good at.

Bill and Beverly, who had been showing up at more and more of their Losers Club hangouts, at Bill’s invitation— not that any of them minded her being there— were in the midst of an intense game of air hockey, leaning towards each other with only the table there to separate them.

It took Richie until the end of the seventh game with Stan for him to realize that Eddie wasn’t behind him anymore. He looked around, flexing his left hand to stretch muscles aching from their tight grip on the joystick. “Where’s Eddie?”

“Hey, you got any more quarters?” Stan fished around in his pockets, not hearing Richie over the harmony of dings and blasts and 8-bit music from the nearby machines.

“Where Eddie?” Richie asked, louder this time. “Where is he?” He scanned the crowd, eyes darting from little kid to parent to gaggle of teenagers crowding around the Tetris console. “I don’t see him.”

Stan shrugged. “Dunno. Probably went to the bathroom or something. Do you have quarters or not?”

“I’m gonna go look for him,” Richie said, and, without so much as a glance at a frowning Stan, began to wade through the crowd. There were Bill and Beverly; she was beating Frogger and he was watching over her shoulder in delight. Could they be any more obvious? It annoyed Richie, although he wasn’t really sure why, to see them like that, Bill’s skin so close to hers, the way he gazed at her with unabashed longing. “Get a room,” Richie muttered, but the sound was lost in the cacophony.

He finally spotted Eddie. His back was flat against the wall, and he was talking to some older girl that Richie didn’t recognize. She was chewing bubblegum, alternately blowing it into large bubbles and then, once popped, looping it around her index finger, drawing it out into a long spool that she began to chew again and prep for another bubble. Somehow, in-between all of this, she was talking, consistently talking without a break, leaning in towards Eddie. Eddie was just looking up at her, nodding, but Richie knew that look in his eyes, and recognized the way his hands were straying towards his fanny pack.

Richie made his way over to them and immediately positioned himself next to Eddie, crossing his arms and looking up at the girl. “Hiya, there.” He glanced towards Eddie. “How you doing, Eds?”

“Don’t— don’t call me that,” Eddie said, shying away from Richie’s affectionate cheek pinching. “I’m, uh, I’m just talking to…”

“Gretta,” the girl informed Richie. She was significantly taller than both of them, and there was something in her eyes that Richie didn’t particularly like. “I was just asking about Eddie’s health. My dad’s his pharmacist, you know. I just think it’s _so_ fascinating you’ve gone to the emergency room three times since March. You must be _so_ brave.” Her tone was thick with mockery, a smile playing across her face.

“I don’t, um—” Eddie started, unable to look at her or Richie.

“It must be _so_ hard, getting sick all the time. I don’t know if I could stand taking all those pills every day, but since they’re _so_ important and necessary…” Gretta smirked, and a look crossed her face like she was about to say something that Richie was sure neither of them would much enjoy.

So Richie did what he did best. “I don’t know if I could stand waking up every morning with that face, Gretta, but you make it look _so_ easy.” He smiled widely at her, buck-teeth on full display. “You must be _so_ brave.” He grabbed Eddie’s hand. “Hey, sweet cheeks, accompany me outside for just a moment?”

And he hauled Eddie off, unable to hear if the smaller boy was protesting or not. He didn’t stop or look around until they were outside and halfway down the alley behind the building.

And then Richie whirled on him.“Why did you let her go on like that? How long was she talking to you?” Richie didn’t let go of Eddie’s hand.

“I don’t know— I didn’t—“

“She was obviously fucking with you. I don’t know what she was talking about, but it was clearly bullshit. Why do you let people talk to you like that?”

“I couldn’t breathe,” Eddie gasped, tugging his hand away and fumbling in his bag to find his inhaler. He finally did, and took a large puff, chest heaving. “It’s so loud in there, and all the lights were weird, and I didn’t know how to leave, she just pulled me away and started talking to me about a lot of weird stuff— she was talking about my medicine, Richie, saying something about my pills, but I couldn’t hear her, everything was so loud.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Richie said, gripping Eddie by the shoulder and gazing seriously at him through his clunky coke-bottle glasses. “Just breathe. It’s fine.”

“I hate going here,” Eddie huffed, and took another hit from his inhaler. “I don’t know why you make us come. You know I get anxious when it’s so loud and there’s so much going on.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you come if you don’t want to, I just… this place feels nice to me. I don’t know.”

“Well, next time you all decide to come, you can count me out,” Eddie snapped. He looked down at his sneakers, fingers curling around the inhaler.

“Eds.” Richie took a step closer to him. “Eddie Spaghetti. Hey. What’s going on, seriously?”

“Oh, now you want to be serious,” Eddie said. His eyes darted up to meet Richie’s, and Richie was surprised by the anger in them. “I don’t like what you said in there.”

Richie frowned. “What, getting what’s-her-face off your back?”

“Calling me sweet cheeks. Like, what were you thinking? Next thing you’re gonna wear around a big neon sign that says, “I’m a queer”.”

“Sounds good, I’m in.”

“Beep-beep, Richie.” Eddie took a step deeper into the alley, lengthening the distance between them again. “I’m serious.”

“Eddie, I talk that way with Stan and Bill all the time. Don’t you think they’d get suspicious if I suddenly stopped joking with you?”

“Just don’t say stuff like that. Sweetheart. Babe. Darling. Whatever. You do it enough and they’ll start to wonder.”

“Oh, and that would be the end of the goddamn world, wouldn’t it?” Richie didn’t mean to say it, he really didn’t. He’d swore he wasn’t going to do this. But now that he was, he may as well see it through. “You’re so scared of people finding out that you won’t even touch me in public, not even a little shove or a hug or anything. It’s fucking weird! So what if they find out? Bill and Stan are cool, they won’t give a shit. And if they do, then it’s their loss! I’m not ashamed of you, and I’m not gonna pretend like I am. I would go in there right now and kiss you in front of everybody in the arcade if you’d let me. I’m not scared of them.”

“I am!” Eddie’s voice broke. “You’re an idiot if you’re not. If you ever did that, anything like that, this town would tear us apart, can’t you see that? They would kill us and everything that’s good and nice and right about this and turn it into something ugly and scary.”

“They’re not doing that.” Richie crossed his arms. He really didn’t want to say this. “You are.” Eddie didn’t respond, just looked at him, so after an uncomfortable pause Richie continued. “We could just tell Bill and Stan. That’s enough. If we could just be us around them, I’d be happy, okay? I just can’t… hide this. It’s like, all the time I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.”

“I thought that’s what you were good at.” Eddie said quietly. He couldn’t meet Richie’s gaze.

“I don’t want to fight, Eds. Come on. I’m not ashamed of you.” His eyes stayed stuck on Eddie’s face, pleading for a confirmation, an agreement, an _I’m not ashamed of you, either_.

Eddie didn’t give him that. Instead, what he gave him was “I have to go”, and a noncommittal glance up. “Tomorrow night. We can go down to the Barrens alone and see each other. It’ll be nice.”

“Right,” Richie said, but he could barely keep everything in. He wanted to yell at Eddie, to shake him by the shoulders, shout at him: “Don’t you understand? Are you even listening to me?” He wanted to hold Eddie tight and tell him that it was gonna be okay, that he’d never let anyone hurt him as long as he was alive. He wanted to cry, and ask Eddie if he actually cared at all.

Mostly, he just wanted to leave hand in hand with Eddie. But he couldn’t. So instead, Eddie left alone, and Richie went back inside and watched Bill whisper something sweet into Beverly’s ear. She laughed, tossed her hair, and they shared a smile.

“They’re cute,” Stan whispered in his ear. “Hey, where’s Eddie?”


	14. Tooth Fairy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little bit of fluff, because these boys deserve SOME happiness :P

Richie dropped his bike on the lawn and pounded on Eddie’s door. “Open up, loser,” he called after a few unanswered knocks. “Don’t you leave me hanging here, it’s getting dark outside and you promised me a trip to the Barrens tonight.” Still no answer. Richie yawned loudly and obnoxiously, pounded again. “Eds, what are you doing in there, banging your—“

The door opened, and Eddie’s mother glared down at him.

Richie swallowed audibly. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Kaspbrak. Is Eddie around? We were sort of, uh, planning on hanging out tonight.”

“He’s up in his room. He’s not feeling well,” she said.

Richie shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. There was something in the way she was looking at him that sort of made him feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. “Oh. What’s wrong with him?”

“His leg is hurt. He says it’s not bad, but I can tell from the way he walks. He shouldn’t be walking around, he’ll just make it worse. I’m taking him to the doctor’s tomorrow.” Mrs. Kaspbrak crossed her arms. “I wonder how it happened.”

“Maybe he’s just growing,” Richie tried for a smile. “He has to at some point, huh?”

“Mhm.”

Richie swore that any minute her eyes were gonna start shooting laser beams right into his skull and he’d die on impact. “Well, sorry for bothering you, then. See ya later, Mrs. Kaspbrak.”

She didn’t reply, just watched him as he retrieved his bike, mounted it, and pedaled away down the street. Her gaze was so piercing, so weirdly terrifying to Richie, that he waited a good ten minutes before riding back. He stopped at the end of the street, leaving his bike out of sight from Eddie’s house, and hopped over the fence into a stranger’s backyard.

It was an odd sight, the gangly fourteen year old clambering over fences and pushing through the hedge lines that divided families’ backyards, avoiding lawn furniture and tricycles and a kid’s blow-up wading pool, but only one person saw it.

Richie ran into the yard next to Eddie’s, and there was a young girl, couldn’t be older than five or six, standing on the back porch, holding a bubble blowing stick. She blinked, and her mouth fell agape. Richie skidded to a halt in front of her.

“Hi,” he said seriously. A stick poked out of his hair.

“Who are you?” The girl asked. There was a large tooth missing from the front of her mouth, and it made her breath whistle.

“I’m the tooth fairy,” Richie said. “You lost one, huh?”

She nodded gravely.

“Here you go.” He fished a quarter out of his pocket and flipped it to her.

She caught it. She looked down to the shiny metal surface, and then back up again, eyes huge. The girl slowly nodded, folded it into her palm, and blew a bubble at him in return.

A large one floated right up to his nose and burst in an explosion of shine and wetness so close he could see little bits splash onto his glasses. He grinned crookedly at the girl, and then took off through the tall hedges that separated her yard from Eddie’s.

“Ow. Aah. Eurgh!” With a determined cry he finally pushed through the brambles, tumbling out on the other side onto a freshly mown lawn. “And thus the prince vanquishes the dread briar patch and comes to the chamber window of his slumbering princess,” he panted, dusting his pants off. “Screw you, briar patch. Man, there must have been a better way to do that.”

But he had reached his destination, and his princess’s bedroom window was not far. He skirted around to the side of the house, somewhat more stealthily than before, stopping when he caught side of Eddie’s side window. Damn, apparently talking through windows was their new thing.

Richie looked down, and bent to find a good rock. Too small, wouldn’t make a sound, too big, and the window would break. And that would be a whole fucking ordeal. He took a smooth, rounder one from their side garden. It fit nicely into his palm, and he rolled it around in his hand for a bit, cracked his neck. He didn’t like to brag, but he considered himself a bit of a trick shot. He always used to pitch when the Losers would play stickball.

He took a deep breath, wound up, and hurled the rock at Eddie’s window. It struck the tiling on the side of the house, almost two feet away from its mark. “Dammit!” Richie swore, and ran to retrieve it from the ground and try again.

He backed up, gripped the stone tight, and promised himself he wouldn’t miss this time. “He’s going for it,” he narrated in his Announcer Voice. “He winds up… he aims… and he throws!”

The window opened. “Richie?” Eddie said. “What— AUGH!” He fell out of view as the rock struck him directly in the forehead.

“Oh shit!” There was pounding from inside, and Richie flattened himself against the side of the house. He bit down on his knuckle, body shaking with laughter, as Eddie’s voice floated down unintelligibly from above, intermingled with his mother’s. Something about tripping, falling onto his desk. A reply, something in an anxious, wavering tone about being more careful.

Finally, the voices subsided, and Eddie stuck his head out again. He was red, his forehead already bruising, and Richie couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s not funny, you moron!” Eddie hissed. “Jesus Christ, what were you thinking, throwing rocks at me?”

“It wasn’t meant for you,” Richie managed between uncontrollable giggles. “Oh my God. I hit you.”

“Yeah, I know, asshole. Why?”

“Wanted to see you,” Richie said, finally getting himself under control, although he was still grinning. “Your mom’s got you cooped up again?”

“Yeah. All I did was wince when I was going upstairs, and then she made me tell her that my leg hurt. It doesn’t even hurt that bad, it’s just a little sore. I think I’m growing, maybe. She’s convinced I tore something and she won’t let me leave my room until we go to the doctor’s tomorrow. I’m serious, she says I can only leave to go to the bathroom. She’s delivering my food up here.” Eddie groaned. “I want to come out with you, but there’s no way in hell she’ll let me go out if I can’t even get a snack from downstairs.”

“Don’t tell her, then. Sneak out. I didn’t Ferris Bueller my way over here for nothing.”

“You what? Ugh, nevermind, I don’t want to know. Look, I’ll never get out the front door without her noticing! I want to come, more than anything, but I don’t think there’s any way.” Eddie peered at Richie, and then frowned. “No. No, Richie. Get that look off your face.”

Richie grinned. “What look?”

“That look! That “I have an amazing idea” look. You always get this look, and it’s never amazing, it’s always terrible, and I don’t want to know.”

“Jump down and I’ll catch you.”

“ _Christ on a bike,_ Rich!”

“Language, mister,” Richie scolded. “Come on. It’s not that high. Just climb out the window and then drop and I’ll catch you in my arms like a little baby.” He held his arms out expectantly.

“Remind me to never ever let you near a baby.”

“But soft! What light from yonder window breaks?” Richie put on his best Old Shakespearean Voice. “It is the East, and Eddie Spaghetti is the sun!”

Eddie groaned, dragged a hand down his face. “Stop, stop it, you’re not convincing me.”

“See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand,” Richie swooned dramatically. “O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”

“How do you know that?” Eddie groaned. “Goddammit. You asshole. You’re gonna kill me. You’re gonna actually murder me. I’m gonna die and it’s gonna be your fault, and I’m gonna get it carved on my tombstone. “Killed by Richie Tozier, that arrogant Shakespeare-quoting, ridiculous, unfunny, adorable asshole”.” Eddie swung a leg out the window. “I hate you so much.”

“You too, darling.” Richie blew a kiss, and held out his arms.


	15. Playing it the hard way

They arrived at the Barrens unscathed, for the most part. Richie hadn’t so much caught Eddie as acted as a cushion to break Eddie’s fall, but the good news was that the smaller boy sprung up completely fine, and Richie could handle his bruises as long as Eddie was alright.

Eddie moved to go to the garage to get his bike, but Richie stopped him. “What if your mom sees that it’s gone? Just ride on my handlebars.”

“No way! You think I’m letting my life ride on your biking abilities? Anyways, I might fall off.”

“Come on, Stan and I do this all the time.”

“Yeah, well, maybe Stan’s ready to die, but I sure am not.”

“Fine.” Richie groaned. “You ride, and I’ll be on the handlebars. We aren’t getting your bike, your mom will definitely hear if you’re banging around in there.”

Eddie grudgingly agreed, and the two started back off through Eddie’s neighbors’ yards. Richie went through the hedges first, pushing them aside for Eddie to crawl through, and boosted Eddie up over the fence that the small boy was too short to climb.

“Thanks for taking me out,” Eddie said, once he was steering them down towards the Barrens and Richie was more or less comfortably positioned on the handlebars. “I can’t stand the way she keeps me cooped up in there. We just have to make sure we’re back before she realizes I’m gone.”

“I’ll bring you home early like a real gentleman, no dilly-dallying, no siree.” Richie gave a salute and the bike wobbled.

Eddie squeezed the grips tight and let out a small shriek. “Careful!” He giggled.

As they reached the Barrens, the night descended upon them like a thick, warm blanket, enveloping them in that familiar humid summer evening air and clinging to their hair, their shirts, their cheeks. They dismounted and, hand in hand, waded through the darkness down to the stream’s edge.

“I was thinking,” Richie started. They sat next to each other, shoes off, toes dipping into the cool current.

“Well, that’s your first mistake.”

“No, seriously,” Richie said, giving Eddie a playful shove. “We could save up some money and get you some art stuff if you wanted, and then come down here and you could paint. Like, I could probably steal an easel and paintbrush or two from the art cabinet at school, they’d never notice. And then we could set it all up out here, it couldn’t be that hard, and you could paint the sunset or something. That’s what artists do, right?” He turned to look at Eddie, and Eddie was staring at him with a strange expression on his face. “What? What is that face for?”

“I love you,” Eddie whispered.

Richie blinked. “That’s the first time you’ve said that.”

“Kiss me,” Eddie said, and Richie did. It was warm and long and soft, so soft, and Richie put a hand on Eddie’s cheek.

There was a loud splash, and a boy fell into their stream.

Eddie tore away from Richie in an instant and they both shot to their feet.

“Holy cannoli, who the fuck are you?” Richie screamed at him.

The boy only gasped, and struggled to stand. He was hurt, obviously, although Richie couldn’t tell where, because his entire body was smeared in blood and dirt. He took one, two staggering steps towards them, and then collapsed into the water.

“Shit!” Eddie and Richie said in perfect unison, and both scrambled towards him.

“What the fuck?” Richie panted as they hauled him up and out of the water. “What the fuck! What the—“

“Shh!” Eddie said, sharply, and Richie actually shut up for once. There was crashing in the forest from which the boy had stumbled, and although it was distant it wouldn’t be for long. “Best bet is the Bowers Gang,” Eddie hissed. “We’ve got to hide him.”

The two of them worked together to haul the short, round boy out of the creek and onto the bank. They spotted a large hollowed-out log nearby, and Richie unceremoniously shoved him inside.

“Careful!” Eddie swatted Richie’s arm. “Don’t kill him. We don’t know where all the blood’s coming from or how bad he's hurt.”

“If I were him, I’d rather bleed out in there than get caught by Bowers,” Richie said. “What about us?” The footsteps drew nearer.

“Here, quick.” Eddie rushed to the water and began to scrub the blood off his hands. Richie followed suit, and by the time the Bowers gang crashed through to the other side of the stream, there were no remnants of the boy left on them.

“You. Trashmouth. Where did he go?” Henry held his knife out to Richie, splashing across through the water. He didn’t look so great, himself. The kid must have gotten a hit or two in.

“Henry, my old friend!” Richie rose to his feet and gave a jaunty tip of an imaginary hat. “A good day to you too, sir. Who is this “he” that you ask of?”

“Not in the mood for your goddamn games,” Henry growled.

“He came this way,” Patrick said, splashing up beside Henry. “We saw him. Now just tell us which way he went and this doesn’t have to get messy.”

“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.” Richie dropped the accent. “I didn’t see anyone come through here before you lot showed up. Did you, Eddie?”

Eddie shook his head. “No. Nobody.”

“Fat kid, about yea high.” Patrick moved towards them, holding his hand out for height. “Half of Henry’s name carved into his stomach. Can’t miss him. Now, do you wanna tell us where he went, or do you wanna play this the hard way?”

Richie sighed. “You’re killing me, man. “Play this the hard way”? It’s too easy, seriously. I don't even know what to say, there's so many options.”

Patrick grabbed Eddie’s arm and dragged him over to where Henry stood in the middle of the stream, water lapping about his boots. “Maybe this one knows something.”

“Stop, stop it, I don’t!” Eddie was yelling, struggling in vain. “I swear, we were just sitting here, we didn’t see anything.”

“Let him go, Patrick!” Richie shouted, and started towards them, but Henry held his knife out and Richie stopped in his tracks.

Patrick squatted down and yanked Eddie closer to him, holding his arm in a bruising grip, until their faces were close to each other. Too close. Eddie tried to turn his face away, but Patrick grabbed him by the chin and held him there. “Not the only thing you’re lying about, is it?” He whispered, a smile spreading across his face.

There was a snap somewhere else in the forest, and Victor grabbed Patrick’s shoulder. “They don’t know anything. Come on, this way.”

Patrick didn’t move, and tightened his grip on Eddie’s jaw. Eddie whimpered, small shoulders shaking. The two stared into each other. Richie stared at Eddie. After a tense, unbearable moment, Henry lowered the knife and gestured towards the noise they had heard. “Patrick, let’s go.”

Patrick released Eddie, who fell backwards into the water, and stood. Slowly, the Bowers Gang left, making their way out of sight towards the noise.

Richie rushed to Eddie’s side, kneeling in the water. “Eddie. Eddie, look at me. Are you okay? Talk to me.”

“He knows,” Eddie gasped, grabbing at Richie’s hand. “He knows.”

“No, they don’t think he’s here, they went off after him, okay? They don’t know we know where the kid is.”

“Not that.” Eddie shook his head fervently. “He knows about us.”

Richie stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“He stared at me, and I could just feel it, he knew, Richie, I’m telling you.”

“Listen to me. Eddie, listen to me.” Richie squeezed Eddie’s hand tight. “Patrick Hockstetter is a crazy, sadistic fucking jackass, and he doesn’t know a goddamn thing. You’re okay. We’re okay. Say it.”

“W- we’re okay.” Eddie swallowed. He didn’t fully look like he believed it, but Richie guessed that was better than nothing.

There was a moan from inside the log. “Oh, right,” Richie said. “ _He’s_ not super okay.”

Together, they dragged him back out from the log. Remembering what Patrick had said, Richie made the mistake of lifting the unconscious boy’s shirt up to reveal the source of his blood. There was an unmistakable large “H” carved into his stomach, and Richie pulled the shirt back over it quickly, suppressing the urge to vomit.

“That’s the new kid,” Eddie said, standing at a wary distance from the blood. “Ben, I think. We have to help him, don’t we?”

“We’ll bring him to Bill’s, his house is close and he’ll know what to do.”

The boy moaned on the ground, eyelids fluttering.

Richie stepped back and took Eddie’s hand. “This is kind of horrible to say, but thank fuck that’s not us.”

Eddie pulled away, didn’t look at Richie. “It could be.”


	16. Made of China

The front door of the Denbrough residence was flung open by a flustered, red-faced Bill, already in his pajamas, hair slick from a recent shower. “Ruh-Richie, what the hell are y-you…” He stopped, gaping, at the sight of the bleeding, half-conscious boy being supported by Eddie and, mostly, Richie. “W-w-wuh—“

“Bowers,” Richie said,

“He’s the new kid from school,” Eddie explained. “They’ve been after him all year. Henry cut him, Bill, and it’s not deep but it’s bleeding a lot, and we need to get him disinfected and bandaged and resting somewhere.”

Without any further question, Bill nodded sharply and opened the door all the way. He helped them carry the boy to the full bathroom conjoined to his parents’ room down the hall and lay him in the bathtub.

“My p-parents are out for the w-w-weekend,” Bill said. “I’ll clean e-everything up before they get back.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Guh-Georgie’s asleep, though. W-we have to be k-kuh-quiet.”

Eddie immediately took charge. “Bill, get me some disinfectants. Rubbing alcohol or iodine. Just really strong alcohol if you don’t have that. And bandages— gauze or cloth, not fucking band-aids. And Richie, some painkillers, whatever they’ve got, and a needle and thread.”

Richie blanched. “You’re not going to…”

“I’m going to do what needs to be done,” Eddie said gravely.

It was a long hour for all of them. Eddie did “what needed to be done”, a series of bloody and terrifying actions about whose necessity Richie was still dubious. The boy, whose name Bill confirmed was “p-probably Ben”, faded in and out of consciousness. Eddie made sure to disinfect everything he could, but he said they should still be on the lookout for infection in the future because the thread, sewing thread Richie had found in the closet, wasn’t sterile. 

Finally, Eddie finished cleaning Ben up, and they moved him out of the now bathtub and into Bill’s room.

“We’ve got to get him new clothes,” Eddie said. “Those are disgusting.”

“I’m sure I can f-find something that w-will fit,” Bill said, and began rummaging through his drawers.

Richie pulled Eddie aside, out into the hallway. “Eddie, you’ve gotta go home, haven’t you?”

Eddie crossed his arms. “I don’t want to. This kid needs me here.”

“You could just walk back over to the Barrens, ride my bike back to your place, and then meet us tomorrow after your mom thinks you’re feeling better.”

“She never thinks I’m feeling better!” Eddie said. “I can’t just miss out on life, on important stuff like this, just because mom decided that I’m fragile!” Eddie glanced over to the boy on Bill’s bed. “I did all of that. I didn’t break under pressure with Patrick, and I helped you carry him all the way over here, and I helped him, I made it better. I’m not fragile.” His eyes met Richie’s again. “Am I?”

“No,” Richie said. “You’re not.” And he really saw it, really meant it. “You’re not fragile, Eds.”

“I want to stay,” Eddie said. “Screw my mom.”

Richie stared at him solemnly for a moment, nodded. And then, because he couldn’t help it: “I totally have.”

Richie wasn’t exactly sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke up to a noise, he was sitting on Bill’s bedroom carpet, leaned back against the side of his bed. Eddie’s head had flopped over onto his shoulder, the smaller boy curling into Richie’s body. Bill was on the foot of the bed above them.

Richie heard the noise again, a shifting on the mattress springs, and carefully extricated himself from Eddie’s grip, gently laying him down on the carpet. He clambered to his feet, the bed sliding into visibility. The boy was pushing himself to sitting, looking around warily. His eyes fixed on Richie.

“Where am I?”

“His house.” Richie pointed to the sleeping Bill. “Eddie and I found you in the Barrens like a fucking zombie. “They’re coming to get you, Barbara!” It was terrifying, man, seriously. Anyways, you passed out on us so we stuck you in a log and then took you here once the Douchebag Brigade left. Eddie fixed you up.”

Ben raised the oversized shirt that Bill had stuck on him and blinked down at the bandages on his midsection. He nodded slowly, then looked back up at Richie. “Thanks. You are…?”

“Richie’s my name, and Voices are my game,” Richie declared. “And you’re the new kid, right? Benny boy? Little shy one, always got his nose in a book? Gee, it’s no wonder Bowers is after you. He hates dorks.” He shot him a crooked smile. “We should know.”

“What time is it?” Ben glanced at the window, the black palette outside.

Richie shrugged. “Night time? Bill’s got a phone, if you’ve got to call mommy dearest.”

Ben tried to move to get off the bed, but a wince and soft moan were enough indication that that wasn’t going to be a good idea.

“Stay there. I can call her if you want, say you’re over at a friend’s house.”

Ben shook his head. “It’s okay. She works the night shift. She’ll be at work, maybe didn’t know I never came home. I’ll let her know in the morning.” He kneaded his fingers together nervously, then looked back up Richie. “Thank you. Really. I thought he was going to kill me.”

“Been there,” Richie said. “Exhilarating high, isn’t it? But it looks like you got him pretty bad, too. Well-aimed punch?”

Ben’s cheeks flushed slightly. “I kicked him. In the…”

“Aw, shit! T.K.O., Haystack claims another victim! That’s savage. You know, I think I could like you.”

Ben’s gaze flickered for a moment. “I feel like I remember. I saw you by the stream. You and the other boy, you were…”

Richie swallowed. Fuck. “Engaging in a friendly embrace?”

“You were kissing.”

“Oh. Right, that, now I remember.” His heart pounded loudly in his ears, but he tried his best to keep his voice casual. He wasn’t sure if it was working or not. “Yeah, it was a dare. Dumb games, right?”

“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

Richie let out a shaky exhale. “You won’t?”

“Of course not,” Ben said, and gave a tentative smile.

“You’ve got a good heart, Haystack.” Richie glanced down to Eddie, still fast asleep. “He doesn’t want anybody knowing. Not even Bill, not anybody. It’s… complicated.”

“I understand. Sometimes feelings can be nicer when they’re kept private.” Ben leaned back into the pillow.

“Yeah, sometimes, I guess.” Richie looked down to Eddie again. He looked so peaceful there, curled up on the carpet. “You know, he’s right. He’s not fragile. I’m not either, though. He doesn’t need to protect me. I think he thinks he does, but I don’t want him to. I just want him to be with me, you know? We’re not made of china, neither of us. He doesn’t have to be so worried. Right?” Richie looked over at Ben. He was asleep, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Richie sighed. “Goddammit. Always with this. Need to spice it up or something, stop people falling asleep in the middle of my important revelatory fucking monologues. Assholes.”


	17. Bad Kids

They were all awakened in the morning by a furious pounding noise.

Bill was on his feet first, padding groggily out of the bedroom and down the hall to the front door. Richie struggled to his feet, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Everything was fuzzy and bright, too bright. He found his glasses on the floor next to a stretching Eddie.

“What’s going on?” Came a mumble from the patient on the bed.

“Dunno.” Richie frowned, and poked his head into Bill’s hallway as he put his glasses on. The scene swam into view just as his ears registered the shouts.

Mrs. Kaspbrak was standing in Bill’s doorframe, red-faced and tall, yelling at a wide-eyed Bill. Bill was trying to pacify her, but he could barely make out a sentence.

“Shit.” Richie ducked back into the room. “Eds, your mom is here, and she’s pissed. Do we tell her you’re here or not?”

Eddie shot to his feet. “Oh no. Oh, no no no. This was so stupid. She’s gonna be so mad. She’ll never let me see you guys ever again. Why am I such an idiot? Why did you let me stay here, Richie?”

“Wha— I told you not to, Eddie!” 

“Sorry, you’re right, you’re right, I’m just—“ Eddie looked around frantically. “If she finds me here she’ll blame Bill, and his parents. He’ll get in loads of trouble. I can’t do that to him. What do I do?”

Richie bit his lip. “Maybe she hasn’t been to my house yet. If she had, she probably would have yelled at my parents, and they would’ve checked and realized I was gone, and then… I don’t know. I don’t know if they’d care enough to come searching with her. Maybe. But my house is closer to yours than Bill’s, so she’s probably already been there and seen we’re both gone.”

“Okay, so then what?”

“We leave,” Richie said. “Now. Out the back door. And we run back to your house.”

“Mine?” Eddie frowned.

“Say she missed you searching somehow. You were just there in your room the whole time, and you don’t know why she didn’t see you. Maybe you were in the bathroom. Anyways, you’re here now, aren’t you, and you swear you never left.” Richie pulled his shoes on. “C’mon, she’ll drive to Stan’s before she goes back home to double-check for you, so we’ll have enough time. I’ll come back with you and make sure everything’s ship-shape.”

“I don’t know if that’ll work. What if she catches us? You’ll get in such big trouble. I don’t want anybody getting in trouble for me.” Eddie stared at him helplessly. “My mom…”

“It’ll work. Look, your mom already thinks I’m a bad influence, and she’s right. It’s my job to get in trouble for you, okay? I can take it.”

“If you’re gonna go,” Ben piped up. “You should go now. I don’t think he can stall for much longer.”

Ben was right. Bill’s stuttered protests were lost on Mrs. Kaspbrak, and she brushed past him and began to thunder down the hall to Bill’s room.

“Come on!” Richie took Eddie’s hand and unlatched Bill’s window, opened it and climbed out, Eddie scurrying out after him. Fortunately, this one was only a first floor window, and it wasn’t hard to pop out onto the grass on the other side. 

“Thanks, Haystack,” Richie whispered before they left. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Ben smiled.

And then they ran. They ran down the alley behind Bill’s house, swerved out onto the street and narrowly avoided being hit by a turning car, and raced down past the entrance to the Barrens. All the while, they were hand in hand.

“Wait, wait,” Richie said, skidding to a halt as they passed the overgrown path. “We left my bike down there last night. I’ll go get it and we’ll get back faster. Wait here.”

“Okay,” Eddie said, and waited, hands straying nervously to the fanny pack eternally strapped to his hip.

Richie jogged down the path, breath coming in quick pants. Not too far down the path, he pushed through the underbrush to the place where he had hidden his bicycle when it had become clear that they couldn’t carry both it and Ben back to Bill’s place. He pulled it from the tangles and swatted away the vine that had become wrapped through the tire spokes. “Alright,” he huffed to himself as he walked it back up towards the road. “This is gonna be fine. Saved a kid’s life, climbed through a window, got an “I love you”…” He’d almost forgotten about that in the excitement. “I love you.” He rolled the word around in his mouth, felt the way it made his tongue press against the back of his teeth, the way he bit his lip on the “v”. He couldn’t help but smile. “I love you. I love you,” he whispered. They had both said it, now, and it felt damn good. 

“Hey, Eddie Spaghetti,” he called as he emerged from the wood. “Guess what? I love…”

Eddie was standing there on the side of the road staring at him, eyes wide with fear. His mom was beside him, one large hand holding Eddie’s wrist tight. 

“…Your mom.” 

“So you’re the one who took him out last night,” Mrs. Kaspbrak sneered at Richie. “I told you he was sick. You went behind my back and took him outside against his will, despite knowing about his troubles with his leg, and stole him away for the night to Heaven knows where—“

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kaspbrak, but he’s not a painting,” Richie interrupted.

“What?” Her face was red, and Eddie winced as her grip tightened on him. It was the same wrist that not 12 hours ago Patrick had grabbed so tight.

“I didn’t steal him. We went out together. He’s my friend, and he’s a person, not a piece of art you can hang on the wall and tell people not to touch.” Richie didn’t know how he was saying this. His mouth was moving without his consent, running ahead of him, like always, only a little worse this time than usual, because dear God what was he saying?

She recoiled at his words, glaring at him like he was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “See, Eddie? I told you. He’s not like you. He’s _dirty_.”

It felt like a slap across the face. Eddie stood there, silent, unmoving, staring at his shoes. 

“I’m not.” Richie said. It came out much more hoarse and quiet than he had meant for it to. 

“Yes, you are.” She stepped towards him, pulled Eddie behind her. She was so tall; Richie had to jut his chin up to meet her gaze. “My Eddie is a good boy. He’s sweet and soft and delicate. You wouldn’t know anything about that. I’ve been around a long time, you know. I’ve seen lots of different kids in my lifetime, so I know what I’m talking about when I say that I know your type. You think you’re so funny.” She stared down at him. “You’re not funny. You’re mean. I shouldn’t have even let Eddie be around you in the first place, but I thought you might get better. I should have known that people like you don’t change, not with parents like yours. You’re just a bad kid.”

Richie felt it in his chest. It was this thudding pain, like a car had hit him squarely in the sternum. He opened his mouth but the words didn’t come. His head was white static, buzzing, like maybe he was dreaming, like maybe he was drunk. He should get drunk. “I’m not a bad kid.”

“Come on, Eddie, let’s go.” Her car was parked on the side of the road, and she opened the door to the backseat for Eddie. He didn’t get in. He finally looked up, but not at her, at Richie.

“I’m not bad.” Richie repeated it. Like a broken record. Skip. Skip. Scratch. 

“Richie,” Eddie said quietly.

“Get in the car, Eddie,” Mrs. Kaspbrak said. And slowly, reluctantly, Eddie did. As the car started, he stared out the window at Richie. And as it pulled away down the block, he looked away.

Richie watched him leave, and couldn’t breathe. There was a huge boulder sitting on his chest and it hurt like hell and he couldn’t breathe at all. Shit. If only Eddie were here, he could use his inhaler. Fuck. There was something stuck in his throat. A scream, maybe? Oh. A sob. Okay. Maybe he should get drunk. His head swam, dizzy, stumbling, swaying, but he wasn’t moving at all. He knew where to find some beer. That would definitely help. He’d never tried it before; he hated the way it smelled and he hated the way it made him feel to look at his mom when she was staggering around filled to the brim with it. But it seemed like the thing to do. He didn’t know. He’d never felt this way before, like he was being crushed slowly and all the air and warmth was draining out of him and pooling on the ground beside him. If Eddie were here, he’d know what to say to make him feel better. But he wasn’t here, because he’d gotten in that car and left and hadn’t said a single thing to make her stop, he’d just let her go on and on about how Richie was _bad_ and _dirty_ **,** so fuck him anyways. 

Okay. So at least he had a plan. He’d get drunk. And maybe then that boulder could roll off, because then she’d be right. He’d be a bad kid. That at least would feel better than this. Anything would feel better than this. What he wouldn’t give right now to not feel a damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry.


	18. Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you liked the last one, you're gonna love this one.

Richie slammed his front door behind him. His shoes still had traces of mud on them from their trek through the stream the day before, and his first instinct was to leave them by the door. He ignored this, and reveled in the little traces of dirt he left on the hardwood in his wake. It was like a little trail, guiding the hunters searching for prey. Little did they know.

“You didn’t come home last night.” Richie’s father sat at the dining table, drinking a cup of coffee. Richie had almost forgot that it was the weekend.

“Yeah. I didn’t,” Richie said. He crossed to the counter and grabbed an orange from the bowl of fruit. “Where’s Mom?”

“Up in her room,” Richie’s father said. He didn’t look up, just peered down at his crossword. “What’s a five-letter word for “father figures”?”

Richie stared at him. He didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the orange until juice started to leak out form where his fingernails were digging into it. “Asshole.”

“That’s seven letters,” his father said, shaking his head. He glanced up at Richie. “Clean up that mess before you go upstairs, won’t you?” And he was back to his paper.

Richie tossed the orange, uneaten, into the trash, and stepped over the juice stains on the linoleum kitchen floor. He marched upstairs, footsteps ringing hollowly through the house, and down the hall to his parents’ room.

He thought about how he would phrase it. “Hey, mom, I’m thinking about getting, like, black-out drunk. Where’s your stash and also which of it tastes the most disgusting? Hey, mom, I’m planning on drowning my sorrows. Any tips? Hey, mom, I’m a bad kid now, did you know that? Fucking Judd Nelson. How long had you known and when were you planning on filling me in?”

He pushed open the door to his mother’s room. She was asleep, peaceful, and with her hair clouded around her she almost looked like a painting. 

Fuck. No. Don’t think about painting. Think about beer.

No, he decided, looking at his mom. Don’t think about that either.

Richie shut the door and went to his room, instead. It was dark and warm, and he kicked his shoes off, climbed up onto his bed, and pulled up the blinds, letting light shine through and illuminate the golden specks of dust meandering through its gaze. They mesmerized him for a moment with the way they moved, so continuously in motion but without any destination. That little mote right there, that could be him, in the grand scheme of things. He reached his finger out to touch it, but it evaded his skin, dancing and swirling around and just narrowly avoiding getting stuck. Smart, Richie thought. You don’t wanna get stuck on me.

He reached out for something, and he wasn’t sure what it was he wanted to find until it was in his lap. He picked the phone up off its pastel plastic receiver and punching in a number. He didn’t know who to call. He knew who he wanted to call and he knew who he absolutely couldn’t, and those happened to be the same person right now.

So instead he called Stan. His friend picked up after five long rings.

“Hey, Stan the Man.” He forced as much enthusiasm into his voice as he possibly could.

“What do you want, Richie?”

“Wow, a real warm welcome.” It sounded hollow, and Richie wasn’t sure if Stan could tell. He cleared his throat. “What are you up to?”

“I was trying to bird-watch, but now I’m talking to you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Richie eyed the dust. “You see any cool birds?”

“Seriously, Richie, what do you want? You didn’t call me to talk about birds.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t call me unless either you want something from me, or you seriously fucked something up. What did you do?”

“It’s, uh, it’s Eddie.” Richie’s voice cracked on the last word. Goddamn idiot. Keep it together.

“Oh, great, of course it is. What the hell did you do? Is this on some kind of lunar cycle, you messing up with Eddie?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You know, last time this happened he came crying to me and Bill and he wouldn’t tell us a thing about it other than that he didn’t want to see you. I still don’t know what happened, and I’m glad it seems like you worked it out that time, but you can’t keep doing this. Why does Eddie always have to be the target of your messed up games? He’s the nicest kid of all of us. Just cool it with him, Richie, it’s stressing all of us out.”

“Stan, I didn’t do anything.”

“Right, sure, you didn’t mean to, of course not.” Stan’s tone was thickly sardonic.

“I didn’t say that. Stan, listen to me, I didn’t fucking do anything.”

A long pause. Richie dug his fingernails into his thigh.

“Okay,” Stan said, tone changed now. “What happened?”

“His mom— we— he stayed out last night. We were at Bill’s. It was complicated.”

“Bill filled me in. Dying kid, emergency surgery, got it.”

“He stayed over. He wasn’t allowed to, his mom didn’t even know he was out— and it was his idea. It was his idea, Stan, and I told him it wasn’t good, but he wanted to, and he got that look in his eyes, you know, the one where he really wants something and he’s not gonna stop until he gets it, and then his mom found us and she said— fuck, Jesus, Stan.” Thick teardrop on his leg now. Splash. It was beautiful. Like a raindrop. 

“Are you okay?” Stan’s voice was etched with worry. “Are you okay and is Eddie okay?”

“He’s fine. We’re all fine.” The word was strange and heavy. “Am I bad? Stan, am I bad? Am I a bad person? Am I ever gonna stop being like this?”

“What? Richie, what are you—“

“I know I am. She’s right. I take him out, I do things with him, and I didn’t think they were bad, but now I think maybe she’s right, and I just hurt people, like how I hurt him, like how I hurt my mom, I just hurt people, and maybe people don’t think I’m funny at all and I’m the only one who thinks that and everybody else just fucking hates me and I don’t realize, hates me like my fucking dad does, hates me like Eddie does, he hates me, Stan, and you’re right, he’s the nicest of all of us, so if he hates me like this it means I did _something_ , it means there’s something _wrong_ with me—“

“Richie, stay where you are. I’m coming over.”

“No,” Richie gasped. “No, don’t. This was a bad idea. I’m sorry. Don’t come over.” He shoved the phone back onto its receiver. “Shit,” he gasped. He had to leave. Stan would come over anyways, because he was a responsible friend like that, and Richie couldn’t talk about this, that much had just been made obvious. He had to get out of here, and go somewhere where they wouldn’t be able to find him.

He pulled his shoes on and ran downstairs and out the door before his father could say a word. Where could he go? None of his usual haunts would do, not the arcade or the movies or anywhere in the center of town. It had to be somewhere only he knew about.

So Richie grabbed a water bottle, got back on his bike, and pedaled to the Barrens, but this time he didn’t stop by the stream or the main trail. Instead, he took a winding route through the forest, down the hill, and across the moors. It took him what he guessed to be near to a half hour of riding, the sweat rolling down his forehead and back, but when the piercing and watchful sun was almost directly above him, he found himself in the field.

It was different in the harshness of the daylight. Last time he was here, on that first twilight with Eddie, it had felt so serene, so still, the purples and oranges painting it as something classically beautiful. Now it was just a field. And Richie was just a kid, and he was alone. He abandoned his bike in the grasses and walked to the shade of the trees, leaned back against one. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tucked his head down, curled in on himself like if he hugged himself hard enough he could imagine there was someone else there with him.

“Why did you leave?” he asked the darkness of the inside of his head. “What did I do? I was trying harder. I swear. I was trying so hard. I don’t know how to be better. I need you to help me. Please.”


	19. Bears

Richie didn’t have a watch. He usually figured that if he really needed to know the time he could just ask someone else, and usually he could. Eddie had a watch. It had a small glass face and red leather strap that was notched through the closest hole around his tiny wrist. Richie once asked him where he got it and Eddie said it had been his great-grandmother’s, and it had been passed down through the generations ever since. It was a testament to the cleanliness and care of his matrilineal line that it had hardly a nick on it, and only a bit of wear on the strap. Richie remembered one time Eddie came back from a trip to his grandfather’s house with a wild story the old man had told him, about how Eddie’s great-grandmother Ruth had worn that very watch the time that she wrestled a bear and won.

Richie was pretty sure that never happened, but Eddie was so excited about it that he let him have it. “Sounds like a pretty tough broad,” he had said. Eddie had glowed that day. 

Richie didn’t have a watch, and his best family heirloom was a little porcelain unicorn that his mother kept in a box in their attic. Richie had only seen it twice; once when he was very little, five, maybe, she had taken him up through the trapdoor to show it to him— this had been an ancient, more lucid time, and Richie remembered the steadiness in her pale hands as she drew it out of its box and held it up for him to gaze at. She let Richie touch it this time, tracing the little blue swirls on the white porcelain. He remembered her steadiness because of his trembling in comparison.He was so nervous that he would break it. The second and only other time he had ever seen it was the day they got the news his grandmother had died. Richie was ten and his mother had hardly come out of her room for the past week. She came out that day, though, and when she walked downstairs barefoot in her white nightgown holding that unicorn, Richie could have sworn she was an angel. 

She had placed the figurine on the mantle in the living room, and sat in the old chair and stared at it for a very long time. Eventually, Richie strayed up to it and tried to reenact the motion of years before, the tracing of the swirls, the feeling of entrancement, but she had snapped out of her stupor and screamed at him. “Don’t touch that,” she had screamed, and Richie had jumped, withdrawing his hand quick as anything. Even now, sitting against the tree, Richie remembered the look on her face. It was like her son had been some sort of stranger, breaking into her home and touching all of her things and leaving his dirty unfamiliar mark on them. That was what it had felt like. Like she didn’t recognize him and was terrified that he might break her.

But Richie wasn’t ten anymore, and he had spent enough years since then trying to convince his mother that he was her son. Like with his attempts to beat Pac-Man or his repeated tries at making it past the fourth page of Moby Dick, like with all ultimately futile pastimes, he grew tired of the constant defeat, the reminders of his striking failure, and he gave up. He still hoped, though. He always hoped.

Richie didn’t have a watch so he didn’t know how long he’d been out there in the field, but the sun wasn’t so high anymore, or so bright, so he ventured out of his meditative spot in the shade and out into the field. The grasses were high, some tickling his thighs and a few stray stalks reaching up towards his elbows. They scratched lightly as he waded through them, but he didn’t much mind. They reminded him that he was here, now, he was this field-Richie, not a blissfully ignorant five-year-old-Richie, not a ten-year-old-Richie who thought he saw an angel, but this Richie, ponderous and alone and stuck here with only his worst friend, his own thoughts.

He had always sort of secretly assumed that the families had got it wrong. It would have made so much more sense for him to wear that watch, that old leather piece from Ruth, that tough broad, the bear-wrestler, and for Eddie to have in his care the little porcelain unicorn. Eddie would never have tried to touch it without asking. Eddie was careful that way, and the figurine would have thrived under his strict authority. If the unicorn were at Eddie’s house it wouldn’t have to be kept spirited away in the attic to stop it from being just another shard of broken glass on the floor. Richie could imagine it now, the little blue swirls and delicate spiral horn carefully enshrined in on one of Eddie’s shelves, the ones he kept all his treasures on. They would fit perfectly together, Eddie and the unicorn, the delicate boy and his steed.

And, in this perfect world of Richie’s dreams, he would wear the watch, and all that came with it: the pride for family long gone, the sense of belonging to a lineage of elder warriors, their spirit imbued in him through the worked leather around his wrist. Once, he had asked Eddie to let him try it on, and Eddie had obliged, of course, because he was a good soul and couldn’t imagine that Richie would ask just so that, later that night in his bed, he could hold his wrist and remember the feeling of the leather wrapped tight around it. Richie got a watch once, but it was plastic and cheap and he lost it within the week when he was swimming in the quarry. 

Richie laid back into the tall grasses and stared at the sky. The sky was a resplendent blue, and the only clouds drifting through it were faint traces, like strands strewn behind from the passage of a cotton ball. It was a terrible thought, he realized now, to believe that he deserved the watch. And it was wrong, anyways. Eddie was always the strong one. He’d never realized it before, not until all of this. Eddie had bears, many of them, attacking on all sides, but he went out anyways and he wrestled them the best he could, one by one, slowly but surely. And it was okay if Eddie was scared and couldn’t add just another fight, not that one, not right now.

But what, Richie thought, was his own excuse? Richie didn’t fight his bears, not one of them. He just sat in a box in his closet and dreamed of coming out.

It was evening, now, and Richie decided he didn’t much mind being alone. It was kinda scary kinda weird kinda nice. He guessed he’d have to get used to it.

Maybe he wouldn’t move to L.A., or New York, or anywhere. Maybe he’d live in this spot, in this moment, as field-Richie forever. It was peaceful. It was lonely. He could handle it.

“Richie.”

Richie sat up, his head swimming. “What?” The grasses obscured his view.

“Richie!”

Richie shot to his feet. Eddie was standing there, panting, on the edge of the field.

“They said you ran off. They were looking everywhere. I thought you might be here.”

Richie didn’t say anything, just looked at him. I was wrong, he thought, blinking. I never knew an angel before.


	20. Strong

Richie’s mouth was dry. He hadn’t spoken for the good part of the day, and that was an unusual sensation for him. He licked his lips. “Eds…”

“I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Richie, I can’t even—” Eddie had this terrible, pained look in his eyes, and Richie wanted nothing more than for it to stop.

“Sticks and stones, Eds. It’s fine.” He tried for a smile. “The old missus is strict, I got it.”

“No. Stop it. You’re doing that thing.” Eddie pushed through the grasses to Richie’s side. “I know what it is. It’s that thing you do when you want me to think you’re fine but you’re really not, and I hate that because you’re really not a good actor and it doesn’t convince me at all; all it does is make me realize it’s a lot worse than I thought.” Richie opened his mouth to speak, but Eddie cut him off. “You’re gonna let me talk right now.” Eddie blinked, looked a little taken aback by his own tone.

Richie raised his eyebrows, gestured for him to go on.

Eddie cleared his throat and tried to get back a little of that look of pure determination. He wasn’t entirely successful, but he still wore a strikingly sincere expression. “That was terrible, what my mom said. It wasn’t okay, it was awful, and I should have said something. And I didn’t, because I was— I was scared. I was really scared of a lot of different things just then, and I panicked and froze up, and I didn’t say anything, and you have a right to be angry at me for that. You should be, you should be pissed off. I was a shitty friend, and it’s worse because… we’re not friends. We’re something else. We don’t talk about it, and I think that’s my fault, because I didn’t want to talk about it, but you did. You always did, and I didn’t listen, and I’m sorry for that, too. I’m sorry for everything, for making you feel this way, for letting her make you feel this way, because I hate your dumb stupid face and the way it looked when she said what she said, and I should’ve stopped her. And I didn’t. And I’m a huge idiot, and I’m sorry.”

“Are you done?” Richie asked quietly.

“Uh, I don’t know. I feel like there’s more. I didn’t really have that much time to practice all of it, though.”

“It’s fine, Eddie.” Richie smiled. There was something in his eye. “It’s seriously fine. I get it. I’m not pissed at you. I mean, it’s not like she was really wrong.” He shrugged. Shit, he was crying. He held the smile. Maybe that would make up for it.

“Aw, dammit, Richie.” Eddie moved forwards to hug him, but Richie backed away from it.

“You’re a good kid, and I’m fucking everything up, everything that you’ve got going for you.” He laughed, the sound echoing strange in his ears. Maybe it was a sob. He couldn’t tell.

“No. I’ve got lots going for me, and so do you, and she’s just a liar and a bully and she likes to control people, and she’s pissed that she can’t control you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Richie said. “That’s what you don’t get. You’re the only thing I have going for me.”

Eddie stared at him. Oh, now he was crying too. Wonderful, you’ve made another person cry, you’ve fucked another thing up. “This isn’t your fault. This one is on me, Richie, how are you not mad?”

“I was. And then I thought about things a lot, and it didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have said those things, she wouldn’t have said I’m _dirty_ , if there hadn’t been a reason.”

“Yes, there would have!” This was not succeeding in making Eddie less upset. On the contrary, Eddie seemed worse now, more upset than Richie had anticipated. “She says stuff like that all the time! She’s not… she’s not a nice person, Richie. She’s not nice to be around. She says stuff like that to me, all the time, whenever I do something she doesn’t like. She says I’m mean or bad or that I don’t love her or I’m a bad son, and it took a really long time for me to realize that wasn’t true. I’m still not always sure. But hearing her back there, talking like that to you, to you of all people, it was enough. When we got home, I told her.”

Richie’s breath caught in his throat. “You— what? You told her what?”

“I told her that she couldn’t say those things. And that my leg was fine and she couldn’t keep me home and I was going out to find you, because…” Eddie let out a shaky exhale, a weird sort of smile. “Because I love you.”

“Oh, Jesus, Eds.”

“And then I left. And the others told me you were gone, and so I thought for a while, and I came here. Because of course you’re here.”

“You told her.”

“I didn’t tell her anything about you, just about myself,” Eddie said. “And we can tell the others, all of them, if you want. It’s scary, sure, but it’s a whole lot scarier to think that I’m hurting you just because I can’t say it. Remember, the first time you told me that you loved me, you swore to God you’d never hurt me. And it’s hard, it’s really hard, because we don’t always know what to do, because we’re— I don’t know, we’re kids, and we’re people, and people suck and hurt each other all the time— but I’m trying my best. I’m not the best thing about you, Richie, but I want to be a good thing. I want to be one of your good things.”

Richie’s mind blanked, like he was an overheated computer, a static radio station. “You told your mom that you’re gay.”

“Yes. I did.”

“Because of me. You did that for me.”

“I did it for both of us. But yeah. It was ‘cause of you. You don’t make me bad, Richie. I think you make me strong.”

Richie grabbed Eddie’s shoulder and roughly pulled him into a hug. And then he let the sobs out. “Fuck, I love you,” Richie gasped. “Why does it have to be so hard?”

Eddie didn’t have an answer. Neither of them did. But they held each other and they stood there in the field as the sun was setting and they didn’t say a word, not for a long time. And it was very scary very weird very nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're... welcome? it gets pretty intense, dealing with abuse and the homophobia prevalent in the 80's, but it's something that i think is important to explore in relation to this story. but also, there's gonna be fluff. lots of it. don't worry.


	21. Fourth of July: Part 1

The Fourth of July fair was bursting with music and brightly popping colors and the scent of sweets and fried things. Richie gazed up at it in amazement, standing abreast with the newly expanded Losers Club just inside the entrance.

“The king doth keep his revels here tonight,” he said, gazing around, wide-eyed. “Derry really outdid itself this time.”

“Is that Shakespeare?” Ben turned to raise his eyebrows at Richie.

“What? I read. I know things.”

Stan smirked. “If only you knew half as much about girls as you apparently do about the Bard, maybe you’d have a girlfriend by now.”

Eddie let out a strained, loud laugh. 

“In my experience,” Richie cut over him. “Everyone I’ve tried to woo with Shakespeare has thought it was magnificent.”

“That’s just because you haven’t tried to woo anyone,” Stan shot back.

Richie gave an awkward smile, and then couldn’t help but glance at Eddie. The boy was looking at him. There was a clear question in his gaze: now? Richie shook his head ever so slightly, and Eddie’s shoulders relaxed a little.

Ever since they had decided a week ago that they would tell everyone, they had been searching for the right moment, but the right moment never came. There had been those times, after Bill told a joke, or Stan gave a not-so-subtle hint, or Bev shot a strange look their way, when it could have been perfect. But Richie had hemmed and hawed and stalled the moment away. It was, quite frankly, an entirely terrifying ordeal. There was the fact that they were both gay, and then the fact that they were together, and then the part where they had been lying to their friends about it for the good part of a month now. There was more than enough in the declaration to make each of the club hate them and never want to speak to them again, or maybe just laugh in their faces. Or worse.

Richie had told Eddie that he didn’t think they’d react like that. Bill and Stan were nice guys. They’d been friends their whole lives. One time last year, there had been a rerun of Cheers on with a gay man in it, and Bill had thought it was a great episode. Richie clung to that, leeching as much hope as he could from it, but he wasn’t sure that was the same as finding out… all of this.

But Eddie and Richie had met up before they’d biked over to meet the gang for Derry’s annual Fourth of July Fair, and they had decided that it had to be tonight. No more waiting, no more chickening out, they would just have done with it. 

That was proving easier said than done.

“Look, funnel cakes!” Bev’s voice snapped him out of his reverie, and the gang all rushed off to get in line.

Eddie found himself next to Ben, and took the opportunity to eye the boy’s stomach. “How is that doing? Are you sure you haven’t felt anything weird? Hotness, pus, anything like that?”

Ben shook his head. “Nothing weirder than usual. You stitched me up pretty well.”

Eddie puffed out his chest, face flooded with pride. “Yeah, I mean, it’s probably cause I sterilized the needle. You can’t forget to do that. I would’ve sterilized the thread, too, but it’s a little harder, you can’t just hold thread over the stove until it catches. I mean, you can, but then you’d have a lot of burned up thread and not much to stitch with.” He caught himself, blushed. “Anyways, it’s no problem. Just keep me updated.”

Ben nodded. He was a quiet boy, but not in the shy, uncertain way. Richie got the distinct sense that he was only quiet because whenever he spoke he made sure it was something he wanted to say, and he picked each word carefully and distinctly. When there was something that Ben wanted to talk about, like the time Bill had made the mistake of mentioned the architecture of Derry’s public library, Ben went on and on, rattling off his seemingly boundless stores of knowledge. Richie had tuned most of it out. All in all, the kid was a nice addition to the group, and nobody minded having him there. Beverly, too, had become an expected member. They didn’t really go anywhere without inviting the other two anymore, and Richie actually thought it was pretty nice. A year or two ago, if someone had told him that his club would change like this over the course of a summer, he figured he’d have been pretty upset. Richie didn’t always like change. But with Eddie, with this thing between them, it was like he had something constant, a rock that he was tethered to, and the waves didn’t rock him so much. He even sort of liked them.

Richie got his funnel cake. He remembered upon the first bite that he didn’t like funnel cakes at all, but he kept eating it, so as not to waste the money. “What should we do?” He asked through a mouthful of the dense substance, looking back at Bill.

“The sun isn’t g-gonna set for another f-f-few hours,” Bill said, squinting up at the sky. “W-we’ve got a while until the f-fireworks, then.”

“There’s the ferris wheel,” Beverly suggested. “I’m not missing out on that. And the other rides. Only one broke down last year. That’s not bad, comparatively.” 

Ben frowned at this. “They broke down?”

“Oh, all the time,” Beverly laughed. “I forgot this is your first official Derry festival. Yeah, this little town of ours has a notorious track record when it comes to public events. But it’s fine, the worst that’s happened since I’ve been alive is a few years ago one of the lap bars on a spinning ride came undone and this kid went flying, but he only broke his leg, so.” She shrugged.

Ben laughed a little. He always did that when Beverly talked, even when she wasn’t funny. He just listened with his eyes fixed on her, and let out a giggle in all the right places. It was kind of cute. It was kind of sad. Richie didn’t think she even noticed.

“What about the pigs?” Stan said. Every year, Derry had a town-wide animal husbandry contest, and the family that could breed the largest pig got a blue ribbon, an “I Love Derry” cap, and fifty bucks. It was kind of lame, but for some reason the kids always loved the swine show. There was something hilarious about seeing all those families come waddling up with their gigantic pigs, looking as proud as if the hog was their firstborn child.

So they waded their way through the crowd to the far edge of the festivities, where the contestants were tending to their pigs before the show. Richie caught Eddie’s hand for a moment as they pushed through a dense spot, so he wouldn’t lose him. They caught each other’s eyes and smiled in a secret little way. These fleeting moments were nice, even if they both knew they couldn’t last. They’d have to tell the others, and sooner rather than later. 

“H-hey, isn’t that the h-h-homeschooled kid?” Bill pointed at a tall boy near their age bending over the railing of one of the pig pens. 

Richie sauntered over to the boy. “Hey. Hey, you.” He tapped the boy’s shoulder when he didn’t hear him.

The boy looked up, surprised. “Hello?” He regarded them warily, which struck Richie as ridiculous, since he seemed more than capable of beating all of them in a fight, except maybe Beverly, since you never really knew with her. 

“Hi. Are you the homeschooled kid?”

He blinked. “Uh, yeah.”

Richie turned back to Bill. “Yes. He is.”

Bill groaned, and walked up beside Richie. “Sorry, that’s just R-Ruh-Richie. He’s j-just like that.”

The boy relaxed a little, and let a confused sort of smile spread onto his face. “It’s no problem. I’m Mike. And this—“ he patted the pig’s back— “is Horace.”

“That’s a weird fucking name for a pig,” Richie laughed. “But, I mean, that’s a weird fucking pig, so I guess it makes sense.”

“Your p-pig is nice.” Bill elbowed Richie in the ribs. “I’m B-B-Bill.”

Mike nodded. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen you around.”

“Stan.” Stan extended his hand, and soon all of the club had joined in a chorus of introductions. Mike was surprisingly friendly, and he and Ben got to talking about the history of animal breeding or something boring like that; Richie really stopped listening after about thirty seconds. But they got along so well that Bill ended up inviting him to the fun zone with them, and Mike disappeared for a minute to ask his grandfather and then came back with this glowing smile on his face.

And so the seven of them went out together, and it felt sort of right, although Richie couldn’t quite place why. He asked Eddie about it as they stood in line together for tickets— he had volunteered the two of them for the duty; the others had given pooled their cash together and given it to them, and gone to scope out the different games. Eddie frowned at Richie’s question and said he wasn’t sure what Richie meant.

“I don’t know. Like, seven’s a good number.”

Eddie looked at him like he was crazy. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Richie repeated. “Like, some Schoolhouse Rock magic number shit, maybe. Seven’s the magic number.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in superstitious stuff like that.” Eddie laughed.

“I don’t!” Richie said. “It just feels… right. I don’t know how else to say it.” He bit his lip. “It feels like maybe now is the time.”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder— a nervous habit. “Like, “the time” the time?”

Richie nodded. “Tonight. Before the fireworks. We’ll just do it, okay?”

Eddie nodded, albeit a little reluctantly. “Okay. What do we do if they…?”

“They won’t,” Richie promised, although he knew he had no business making promises like that. “It’s fine. They won’t.”

Eddie reached down and, in the cover of the crowd, squeezed Richie’s hand. Richie squeezed it back, and they felt warm and okay for a second, and Richie got this strange sensation that everything was falling into place, that everything was just as it should be. He had never really felt that before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love mike! i'm so excited to write more with him, and with the whole gang together now!


	22. Fourth of July: Part 2

It took about three hours for them to spend almost all of the tickets they had bought. Ben refused to go on the pirate ship ride, saying he had a near-death experience with one of those a few years back and he didn’t trust Derry at all not to kill him, which was fair; Eddie almost threw up on the Superstar, a large spinning ride that Richie had forced him into and, after it was over, helped him out of; Bev was about as aggressive a bumper car driver as one would expect; and Mike proved a surprisingly steady hand at one booth where you had to shoot targets with a water gun. Mike won three small stuffed animals and gave one to Bill for lending him a ticket, one to Ben because they all made Ben show Mike the wound on his stomach and Mike felt sorry for him, and one to Richie. Mike was going to keep that last one, but Richie pointedly complained about not being one of Mike’s “favorites” for the good part of an hour, so finally Mike relented. Richie almost felt sorry for him.

But not that sorry. Richie got the little green stuffed frog in his hands, stuck his tongue out at it, said it was dumb-looking, and promptly gave it to Eddie, saying that it was a dumb kid’s toy, and so Eddie, being a dumb kid, should keep it. Mike looked a little annoyed, but he was clearly trying his best. Eddie pretended to look hurt, but their fingers brushed as Richie handed him the frog and they couldn’t keep but both smile a little bit.

Richie looked up and caught Bill’s eye, and then quickly looked away. Bill had been looking at him. Or maybe he hadn’t, and it was just a weird accidental eye contact. Yeah, that was probably it.

They saved their last few tickets each for the Ferris Wheel. They all decided it would be cooler to go up at sunset, and anyways the pig show was starting soon, so Richie pocketed his little slips of paper and went with the others to take find seats for the pig show while Mike and Horace got ready together.

“Mike seems nice,” Stan observed as they settled into a row of folding chairs on the grass. “I like him.”

“He’s good a damn good trigger finger,” Bev said. “And he was the only one who would go on the Tower of Fear with me.”

“I-I _wanted_ to,” Bill protested. “It w-was just my ice c-cream was melting.”

“And the line was really long,” Stan said.

“They seat you in pairs, and I wasn’t gonna sit alone on that thing.” Richie crossed his arms. “I wasn’t scared, though.”

“I wasn’t tall enough,” Eddie said. “Stupid goddamn height requirements. It’s dumb. I’m twelve, I should be able to do what I want. It’s not my fault my growth spurt hasn’t hit me yet.”

They all turned to look at Ben. He blinked. “Oh, I don’t have an excuse. I just thought it was too scary. But I would have gone if Bev had asked.”

Bev laughed, threw an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulder. “And that’s why you’re my favorite, New Kid.”

Ben blushed profusely, and so did Bill. “I c-could have gone,” he insisted crossly. “Nobody would h-h-hold my ice cream f-for me.”

Eddie wriggled in his seat next to Richie and looked uncomfortable. Richie glanced over at him and quirked an eyebrow. “What?”

Eddie shook his head. “No. Nothing.” He crossed his legs.

“Eds.”

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie blushed. “Look, it’s fine, I just gotta pee before the show starts.”

“Go, then. What, do you need our permission?” Richie smirked.

“I can’t.”

Bev leaned over, frowned. “What, like, you… can’t?”

Eddie turned a deep shade of scarlet. “No! God! It’s just— the fucking Port-A-Potties. I can’t go in there, it’s disgusting. Have you seen the inside of one of those things? Have you **smelt** them? It’s a petri dish of every possible disease, it’s worse than Mike’s pig pen, it’s goddamn disgusting! I’m not going in there.”

Richie groaned. “Just go pee in the woods, then, come on. It’s not that deep.”

Eddie crossed his arms. “That’s embarrassing.” 

His fucking pout was adorable, as was the mauve creeping up his neck and across his forehead. Richie couldn’t help but smile, but Eddie took the expression as a display of mockery.

“Fuck off!” He shoved Richie, who fell back into Beverly on his other side. “It’s not funny! Screw you.”

Richie laughed. “It’s super funny. Come on, I’ll go with you and keep a look out. We’ll be there and back before the show starts.”

Bill made a strange sort of noise, a little snort. Richie didn’t turn to look at him. He didn’t want to know what he would see in his friend’s gaze. Instead, he took Eddie by the arm and scooted past the others, marched them past the corn dog stand and into the wooded area bordering one edge of the fairground.

They pushed deeper into the brush until they were hidden from sight, and Richie stood dutifully with his back turned while Eddie foraged a little deeper for an adequately secluded spot. After a few minutes of rustling, Eddie came back and tapped Richie on the shoulder. 

“Hey,” Eddie said. “Now that we’re alone…”

Richie laughed. “Oh, so this was all just a big scheme to get me alone. Fine, fine, you win, have at it. My lips are yours.” He leaned, lips first, into the air vaguely surrounding Eddie’s face.

Eddie swatted him away. “No. Not right now. We should talk about what we’re gonna say.”

Richie’s face fell. “Oh. Talking about our feelings. That’s totally as fun as sucking face.” He crossed his arms. “Not.”

“Come on. Do you have a plan? Of what you’re gonna say?”

“Of what _we’re_ gonna say,” Richie reminded him. “And I don’t need a plan, it’s not that big of a deal.” He was lying, and they both knew it. “I’ll just wing it.”

“Richie, whenever you open your mouth and just _wing it_ , bad things happen. Very bad things. I think we should make a plan.”

“Jeez, you’re really taking all of the fun out of the most terrifying moment in my life.”

Eddie put a hand on Richie’s arm, untangled the taller boy’s arms until he could hold both hands. “Me too. It’s really scary for me, too. It was like I had this little bird flying around inside my stomach for weeks, for years, maybe, and I didn’t even realize it had been there until I told my mom and it stopped flapping so much. Does that make sense?”

Richie’s first instinct was to pull away, but he squeezed Eddie’s hands instead. “I guess so. I sort of forgot you’d already told someone. I haven’t, uh, told anybody. Or really said it out loud at all. It’s weird to think about. I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Eddie said, and almost laughed a little. “You think I do? You think any of them do?”

“That’s true. They’re all fucking idiots.” Richie actually smiled, then.

“Let’s just… not complicate it. Just say it without a load of preamble. Like, we’ve been wanting to tell you guys something. Sorry we didn’t sooner. But we’re, uh, we’re together. We’re together together.” Eddie’s eyes were so frustratingly beautiful, a deep brown that Richie found himself drowning in. Richie nodded wordlessly, because how could you say no to those eyes? 

And so they returned to their seats just as the show started, having taken a little bit too long in the forest, but no one really seemed to notice. Everyone was too caught up in the grotesque hilarity that was the brigade of huge, lumbering pigs being led out onto the makeshift stage by their owners. Mike was near the back of the pack, and they all waved obnoxiously at him. Richie thought Mike actually blushed a little. It was sweet, and it made Richie want to invite him over for something. The poor kid was homeschooled, probably hadn’t had a friend in his whole life.

But it was hard for Richie to focus too hard on the pigs, who were each brought up at a time in an uncanny pageant and paraded before the audience and weighed by the judges. He instead was heart-wrenchingly aware of Eddie’s hand in the space where their chairs touched, and how his own hand was touching Eddie’s slightly at the pinkies, and dear God, they were electric.

He didn’t realize he’d been zoning out until the cheering started from the seats beside him. He blinked, snapping to the present, and pulled his hand up to clap. What was he clapping for?

Mike was grinning, kneeling beside his pig, posing for the photograph. Bill was on his feet, hollering in praise, and Bev was pumping her fist in the air: “That’s my boy!” He looked for a moment not at Mike, but at them. They were good people, and they were good friends, all of them. You were lucky if they chose you, and once they did you had better do your damn best not to lose them. Richie thought he’d probably never have friends like this again.

He cheered for Mike too, and was lost for a moment in the sound. They were the only ones cheering; everybody else was politely clapping, or already taking their purses and bags and leaving. Pig breeding wasn’t really all that interesting. But by God if it wasn’t the most important thing in that moment, because now Richie was looking at Mike and the boy was flushed, embarrassed by their praise, but Richie could see it in his eyes: the relief, the joy, the hope. 

As most of the crowd filtered away, the judges stalled Mike and his grandfather, who had joined him onstage, for a while longer, handing Mike the blue ribbon and tucking a somewhat tacky “I Love Derry” cap onto his head, and counting out the cash prize and placing it into the hands of Mike’s grandfather. The Losers Club all waited dutifully for him until even the judges had left, and Mike’s grandfather had led the pig back to its stables.

“Well, if we aren’t friends with a goddamn superstar,” Richie said.

Mike was glowing. He could barely speak through his wide, toothy grin. “Thank you. We worked really hard, but I never thought…”

“I was talking about Horace.” Richie smirked back at him. “Who are you, again?”

There was a communal high-fiving of Mike and congratulations from all, before Bill piped up. “W-well, what b-better to celebrate than a g-go on the f-f-ferris wheel?”

Mike agreed heartily, and so the group made their way over, last tickets in hand, to the line. The ferris wheel wasn’t terribly large or impressive, and it was a bit more creaky than any of them would have liked, but in the neon lights of the fun zone, in the fading sun and the excitement of Mike’s victory and the advent of Mike in general, it looked to Richie like a monument of strength, an eighth wonder of the world.

“It’s only two to a car,” Stan said. “And I’m not sitting with Trashmouth.”

“I will,” Eddie said immediately. “I mean, if I have to.”

Bill made another strange little noise, and this time Richie wasn’t the only one that heard. Stan’s head turned, too, and the others caught on quick that something was happening.

“What?” Stan frowned.

“N-nothing,” Bill said. “It’s just, y-you know.” He gestured noncommittally to Richie and Eddie.

A shiver ran down Richie’s spine, and it must have manifested physically in some way because he saw Eddie start to reach out to take his hand, then stop himself, dual motives warring in the creases of his forehead.

“You know what? What are you talking about?” Stan didn’t get it.

“I think he just means…” Bev tested it gingerly. “That you didn’t have to volunteer.”

Stan looked around, from one face to another. “I’m missing something. What am I missing? Did you guys have some kind of big conversation behind my back? What’s going on?” 

Eddie cleared his throat. Oh my god, Richie thought, he’s going to say it. And then, irrationally, he knew, he got sort of jealous. He’s already said it, he thought. I haven’t said it yet. I should get to.

And then, before Eddie could say it, before Bill could say it, before he could speculate or plan or make good words: “We’re together— for each other,” Richie blurted out.

There was a silence, and then: “ _What?_ ” Stan looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel, he was so indignantly confused, convinced he had been left out of a group joke.

“Richie.” 

Richie turned to look at Eddie beside him, and Eddie was laughing. The little shit was actually laughing. “Richie,” Eddie repeated. “You said it wrong.”

“No I didn’t— what? I didn’t—“ Richie flushed violently, and he wasn’t laughing. “Fuck you. I said it fine.”

“No,” Eddie laughed, and now he was laughing hard. “You said it so wrong. Oh my God. I told you. You and your motormouth.”

“Stop it! I said it fine!” Richie shoved Eddie. Goddammit. God _damn_ it.

Everybody was staring, most of all Stan. “What are you saying?” He asked, slowly, drawing each part of it out, like he was asking a child what they had dreamed. 

Nobody wanted to answer. Bill glanced at Beverly. Beverly, surprisingly, glanced at Ben. Ben was looking at Richie. 

Richie stammered, opened his mouth and closed it again like a fish underwater. “I— I— we—“

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie said. “Stanley, we’re gay. We’re big fucking gays and we’re gay for each other, is what I think Richie was trying to say, and we’re not even very good at hiding it but apparently we’re worse at actually saying it.”

Stan blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked again. “Oh. Okay.” He looked around, and his eyes fastened on Bill first. “Well?”

Bill shrugged. “W-well what?”

“You knew?”

“I g-guessed.”

Stan’s eyes sought out the others, a wide-eyed, almost panicked sort of gaze, looking for something, although Richie wasn’t quite sure what. 

Beverly offered a sympathetic smile. “Counseled Trashmouth on his romantic woes.”

“I walked in on them kissing,” Ben said quietly. “Stumbled, sort of. Fell.”

Stan’s head whipped back to Richie and Eddie. Somehow, their hands had found each others’, and Richie was holding on for dear life. He tried not to flinch when Stan’s gaze rested itself upon him. “I was the only person that didn’t know?”

“I didn’t know either,” Mike volunteered.

“You only met us today!” Stan shook his head incredulously at Richie. “I can’t believe this. This is— no one else thinks this is crazy?”

Richie’s grip tightened on Eddie’s. He knew he was probably hurting Eddie with his vice-like grip, but the other boy didn’t say anything, just squeezed back. Richie’s mouth was dry. He swallowed, then tried his best to speak. “It’s not something I can help, Stan. Even if I wanted to. And I don’t. This is good, we’re good, and I know it’s weird and you’re not used to it, but maybe you could be. It’s okay if you aren’t at first— it’s messy, I know, it doesn’t make any sense, not to me either, but—“

Stan held up a hand. “Richie, I’m not mad at you because you’re gay. Jesus. I’m mad because I was the last to know.”

“Oh,” Richie said. “Oh?”

“I’m not mad at all,” Stan sighed, exasperated. “What do you take me for?” He turned to the others. “Any of you guys have a problem with them?”

No one moved a muscle, except Beverly, who just smiled the smallest bit at them.

Stan turned back. “We’re your friends. Always. Bill and I have listened to you say outrageous things about our mothers for the past thirteen years, Richie. And Eddie, I learned the ABC’s of infections from your endless goddamn rambles. If all that didn’t put us off you guys, there’s no way that this would. And if it did, you shouldn’t want to hang around us anyways. Come on, you know us.” He reached out his hand. A peace offering? A symbol of trust.

Richie took it. And oh, thank God, thank the stars, thank any divine fucking being above that Richie had previously disdained, because Richie’s other hand was holding Eddie’s, and everyone was looking at them, and they were smiling.

They went up into the ferris wheel together as the sun set and Richie and Eddie sat next to each other, and they kissed at the top of the wheel. And it felt in that moment that there was nothing in the world wrong with two boys kissing, in love. Maybe there was nothing in the world so right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy Coming Out Day <3 <3 i'm a bisexual girl, and i know that stories and the media that i consumed throughout my life both helped me realize and be okay with who i am. i hope that today this story might help somebody, or just bring a little happiness/ this day can be hard for people that aren't out yet or aren't sure about your sexuality, but it doesn't matter what anybody else thinks, or whether you are out or not. discover and revel in yourself.


	23. Fourth of July: Part 3

“Okay, first question: how long have you two been… you know? Together for each other?”

They were sitting at the top of a large set of bleachers under the evening breeze. The fireworks were bound to start soon, but there had become something much more pressing to do for the Losers, and that was to bombard Richie and Eddie with questions. So they mounted the farthest bleachers and climbed to the back, rows away from where anybody else was sitting and comfortably out of hearing range. 

Eddie had constructed the rules of the game, if it could even be called a game. Each of the Losers could ask a question, but they had to stay in order, no skipping, and only ask one at a time, and Richie and Eddie didn’t have to answer if they didn’t want to, but if they did they had to tell the truth.

Richie thought it was a little dumb, and asked why they couldn’t just talk like normal people, but everyone seemed very excited about “Truth and Truth”, so that’s what they were doing now, and Stan had led them off with the first question.

Richie cleared his throat. “Oh, man, uh, I don’t know. A few weeks ago, I guess…”

“June 14th,” Eddie said, blushing a little.

“That’s almost three weeks!” Stan said. “How did you two blockheads keep a secret from us for almost three weeks?”

“Not very well, apparently.” Richie snorted. “Anyways, that’s another question, and it’s Bill’s turn.”

Bill mulled it over for a moment, ostensibly trying to pick a question that would satisfy enough of his queries all in one. He seemed unable to pick an all-encompassing one, so instead he asked, “How did it h-happen?”

Richie and Eddie both looked to each other, and laughed a little. “Um,” Richie said. “It was that night we camped out at the Barrens, when you guys all couldn’t come. It was this whole thing, with Cher, Eddie was Cher, and then, uh, we kissed.”

“Who kissed who first?” Ben’s was prompt.

“I did,” Eddie said. “I kissed him.”

This was met with an audience of whoops and whistles, which drew the attention of an elderly couple sitting several rows down, but they quieted again as best they could. 

“I know, I know,” Richie rolled his eyes. “Who woulda thunk, Trashmouth Tozier gets one-upped by the surprisingly strong romantic initiative of the runt.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie complained.

“Sorry, sweet cheeks.” Richie pinched one of Eddie’s cheeks playfully.

Bill laughed a little. “H-how did we not r-realize?”

Bev didn’t need prompting to go next. “The cassette. What did you do with it? Did it work?”

“Technically two questions, but I’ll allow it.” Eddie said, and turned to Richie. “This one’s on you.”

Richie sprawled backwards, posturing a bit to delay the heat he could feel burning into his cheeks. “Oh, the classic story. I was an ass, I wronged him greatly, he wouldn’t speak to me, so I sold all my comic books and bought a boombox and brought it to his window.” He mimed holding it up in the air. “Lloyd Dobbler style. Called up Rapunzel, Rapunzel, and yes it worked, he let down his hair, and everything was hunky dory again.”

“A little more complicated than that,” Eddie muttered. “But yeah, basically.”

“Oh my God, you’re such dorks.” Beverly snorted. 

They all turned to Mike. It could have been weird, having him here, but for some reason it wasn’t. Richie had tried to explain to the others his “seven is the magic number” idea, but only Bill seemed to really get what he meant. 

Mike considered his options, and then asked, “This is for both of you. What’s your favorite thing about each other?”

Richie blinked. “That’s— what?”

“You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”

Richie looked down at his shoes and blushed, dropping his last pretense of composure and distance from the subject. “Um. Well. I don’t know. That’s really hard.”

“His stupid jokes,” Eddie said. “His dumb asshole jokes that are never ever funny and don’t even make sense half of the time. They, uh, they make me feel better. And also his glasses, they’re really cute, and he needs to stop breaking them.” He looked over at Richie. “When you’re soft, which isn’t all the time, but it’s sometimes, and it’s nice.” He was red, but he was smiling. “Is that too many things? That was too many things. Augh, this is so embarrassing.” He buried his face in his hands.

Richie could only stare at him. “I— thanks.” He awkwardly reached out and patted Eddie’s back. It was the worst move, and he knew it, but it was so weird with everyone there watching.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this,” Stan shook his head slowly. “I mean, not the gay thing, that makes a lot of sense and probably explains a lot, but that it’s… you. You two. Eugh. I mean, what? What weird alternate dimension are we in? Sorry. Not “eugh”. Just… you know what I mean.”

Eddie uncurled a little and looked up at Richie. “Well?”

“Well?” Richie drew his hand back. “Well. Uh. My favorite thing about you. Mm. That’s a, uh, a tough one.”

“It’s not that tough,” Eddie said. “I came up with some.” A little frown was working its way into his forehead, and Richie knew that frown, that frown meant disaster, it meant hurt feelings and that Richie was being no good at this again.

“No! Don’t make that face. Look, look at me.” Richie commanded, and Eddie did, his eyebrows pushing together, that little anxious expression. “That.” Richie pointed at him. “That face. That dumb face. You’re so dumb. I love you.”

“You really suck at this,” Bev said, leaning back and enjoying the show.

But Eddie got it, and the frown dropped, and he leaned into Richie’s side. “Yeah, he does. Not everyone can be a natural babe magnet like you, Bev.”

They all laughed to hear Eddie say the words “babe magnet”, and then they laughed some more because this was totally weird but also kinda fun, and also Richie’s arm was around Eddie and nobody seemed to mind much. 

The first firework was launched into the sky and burst into a shower of red. It looked like crimson rain as it cascaded down, and Richie drew Eddie closer to his side. He could feel a rhythm pounding into his ribs, and he couldn’t tell it the beat was originating from him or Eddie. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe there wasn’t a difference.

They all laid back onto the bleachers, heads in each others laps, legs all entangled. It was uncomfortable as hell but also felt very right, and Richie wouldn’t have it any other way. His head ended up next to Eddie’s on Bill stomach, and when Bill spoke, Richie and Eddie bobbed up and down, twin sailboats on the ocean.

“I w-wish we c-could stay kids forever,” Bill said. Someone murmured in agreement— Stan, maybe— but Beverly frowned. her head was on Richie’s ankles, and she was sprawled sideways below them across the bleacher.

“I don’t,” she said. “I can’t wait to move out. I imagine it all the time. When I’m older I can be whomever I want to be. I’ll be someone good. Someone better.”

“You don’t need to be better,” Ben said. “But if you did want to be, you wouldn’t have to move out to do that.”

A firework sizzled up, bloomed white in the darkness.

“I think I would,” Bev said. Richie thought for a moment that she was going to say more, but she didn’t, and she laid very still.

“When I’m older,” Ben said, speaking in that careful way of his. “I’ll be stronger. Bigger. And when you’re an adult, if someone has a problem with you, they use words, not fists or knives, and I’m good at words.”

“When I’m older, I’ll have a family,” Mike said, and a few of them turned their heads to look over at him. “My, uh, my parents died when I was little, in a fire.” He swallowed. “I live with my grandpa on his farm. He’s wonderful, but it would be nice to have… people who are for me. People who I’m for. I don’t know, like a family that all takes care of each other, so it wouldn’t just be me anymore.”

There was a nodding, a mutual agreement. Blue and pink fire drifted down the sky, always fizzling out before the kids could reach out and touch it.

“When I’m older,” Eddie said. “I won’t be so afraid. No one will take care of me, and that’ll be okay, because I’ll be able to take care of myself.”

Richie found Eddie’s hand and squeezed it. One, two fireworks were sent up in unison, and then five more in quick succession. As the remnants fell, Richie imagined that they were the stars themselves falling out of the sky, stars in every color, multitudes of them.

“I guess for me,” Richie said slowly. “When I grow up… well, when I grow up I’d like to think I won’t have such a tough crowd. You guys are great and all, but I don’t think you fully appreciate what luck you’ve got in growing up with one of the great comedic geniuses of this century.”

They laughed despite themselves; even Stan gave an indulgent chuckle. “When I’m older,” Stan said. “I won’t have to hear your dumb Voices anymore.”

“I th-think that’s what I m-meant,” Bill cut in.

“What?” Richie asked. “That you’ll miss my dumb voice?”

“Well, y-yeah. You, a-all of you. You’re the b-b-buh— the best people I’ve ever knuh-known. And I’ll m-miss you like hell.”

It was Beverly who answered him first. Richie was surprised and also wasn’t in the slightest. “You won’t have to. Just ‘cause we’re growing up doesn’t mean we have to leave each other behind. That’s dumb. You guys are one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.”

Richie liked the way she said that, like they were all a force of nature sweeping through Derry and picking untethered people up alone the way. He thought about telling them all about his plan he’d told Eddie, about L.A. and the mansion and living together, but for some reason he didn’t really want to. Maybe that was something that could be just between him and Eddie. Instead, he said, “Enough about growing up. We’re thirteen, let’s just be thirteen. We’ve got this summer, haven’t we?”

“Yeah,” Bev said.

“Y-yeah,” Bill agreed. “Nothing gonna t-take that away from us.”

“The sky is so beautiful,” Eddie sighed. It really was. It was gold right now, but just a moment ago it had been blue, and the moment before that green. Richie liked the way it was always changing, but he also sort of wished he had a polaroid with him so he could take a snapshot and savor each burst for what it was, examine it forever, tape it up to his wall, remember this moment. Because moments always end too soon.

There was a loud clang from the bottom of the mostly empty bleacher, someone stepping up onto it. “Eddie, dear.”

Richie’s heart froze in his chest. It froze, it really did, his chest was icy and cold and he couldn’t move. But then Eddie moved, jerking up to sitting, and so Richie did too, and so did all the others. Mrs. Kaspbrak was at the bottom of the bleachers, and the few families and couples who had been sitting there were already moving, flocking away instinctively to another area. They were smart. 

“Come down, I’d like to speak to you.”

Eddie looked at Richie. Richie gave him a small sort of nod, because that’s what he figured he should do, and he couldn’t really feel his tongue enough to speak. Eddie stood, but then Bill rose to his feet too beside him, so Richie did too, and then they were all standing, shoulder to shoulder, a little legion. Eddie started to make his way down the bleachers towards his mother, and they all did, too.

“Hi, mom.” Eddie’s voice was smaller than usual, but he didn’t look away from her, and he held his ground. “Do we have to leave? The fireworks aren’t over yet.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, honey, but we have to go.” She reached a hand out for him.

He frowned a little. “Why? It’s Saturday. We’re not doing anything tomorrow. Couldn’t I just stay a little while longer?”

Her eyes darted up to the others behind him. Her gaze focused on Mike. Richie didn’t like the way she was looking at him. “Who is this?”

“His name’s Mike,” Eddie said. “He’s a friend. A new friend.”

She made a little unimpressed “hmph”ing sound that infuriated Richie. “We’re going out tomorrow morning, you’ve got to get to bed. You know what you’re like when you don’t sleep. And I’m sure you’ve had enough fun for the day with your… friends.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’ll talk about this in the car, Eddie.” She stuck her hand out insistently at him. “Come along, now.”

“No, mom. I want to talk about it now. Where are we going?”

Richie was surprised at the boldness of Eddie’s words, the blatant denial. He’d never heard Eddie say no to his mom before. But maybe it was something about having all of them behind him; it made Richie feel more braver, too, brave enough to look her right in the eyes, despite everything that she’d said to him only a week ago. Screw her. She was wrong. It was about time someone said no to her.

“We’re driving to your uncle’s summer house in Vermont. He’s invited us to stay for the last month and a half of summer. It’s very exciting, sweetie, he’s got a nice house on a lake, and the air there will do wonders for your—“

“ _Vermont?_ That’s— that’s five hours, away, mom, you can’t just take me away for the rest of the summer! No!” Eddie was staring at her in shock, horror, disgust.

Richie wasn’t shocked. Richie knew exactly what was happening. “Mrs. Kaspbrak—“ he started.

“No.” She rounded on him. “Not you. I told my Eddie to stay away from you, and I know now I was right, you put these thoughts in his head, these nasty thoughts, and he needs to get away from you. From all of you people.” Her glare flickered across all of them in turn.

“Mom, no! Stop it!” Eddie’s voice was high now, nearing panic, verging on a shriek. “Nobody put anything in my head, it’s me, this is just me, it’s got nothing to do with them!”

“Don’t worry, baby. We’ll fix you, okay? We’ll get this fixed.” Seeing his refusal to take her hand, Mrs. Kaspbrak took Eddie by the wrist and pulled him towards her.

“Take your goddamn hand off of him.” Beverly’s eyes were blazing. “Don’t touch him like that.”

“M-Mrs. Kaspbrak, you can’t d-do this.” Bill stepped forwards. “N-not all summer.”

“You should understand,” she shot back. “You’ve been Eddie’s friends his whole life, you and Stanley. If you only knew what sort of things he’s been saying, you’d be concerned, too. He’s coming with me and he’s getting better, and you’ll see him back in school in September.”

“This isn’t right.” Stan shook his head. “He doesn’t want to go.”

“No, I don’t!” Eddie struggled. “Mom, let go, you’re hurting me!”

“No, baby.” She frowned down at him. “You’re hurting yourself. Stop struggling, and it won’t be so painful.”

“I won’t let you do this,” Richie said. “You can’t.”

“I’m his mother,” she said. “And I know what’s best for my son.”

And the Losers Club watched as she hauled a crying, protesting Eddie away. Before she could get him too far, he turned back and screamed over his shoulder, across the large field that held the bleachers, full of people whose heads were now turned his way, “Richie, I love you!”

Richie tried to go, to run to him, but Bill put a hand on his shoulder, and Beverly grabbed his other hand and held him back. “You can’t,” she whispered in his ear. 

Richie shook them both off, but he didn’t run. She was right. Mrs. Kaspbrak was Eddie’s mom, and she could take him to Vermont, she could take him to California, to Australia, if she wanted. And anything he did might just make it worse for Eddie now. So he only shouted back, “I love you! It’s okay! I’ll write!”

He thought Eddie yelled something back, but he was too far gone, and Richie couldn’t hear what it was.

“Fuck,” Richie said. He started to crumple down, to sink into himself, but Stan caught him under one arm and someone else put hands on his back, his shoulder.

“It’s okay.” Bill’s hand was on his cheek. “It’s g-gonna be okay. We’ll write him. O-okay? We’ll figure this out. All of us. T-together. It’s gonna be okay.”

 

\- End of Part 1 - 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all will be well, eventually! don't worry! part 2 is gonna be in a slightly different format, but i'm gonna try to keep updating every day! i also just wanted to think all of you for your SUPER kind words. i don't always have time to respond, but i read every single one of your comments and you honestly are so overwhelmingly kind, and it amazes me every time one of you replies something so nice to my story. it means a lot <3


	24. July 6-9

July 6, 1989

Dear Eddie Spaghetti,

hey I’m writing this two days after you left, everybody said I should wait a little longer but I think that’s dumb and you’ll just get this when you get it. I tried to call you but the phone didn’t pick up and probably your mom wouldn’t let you talk to me anyways.

I miss you like a lot and so does everybody else. we realized we still haven’t seen the new Ghostbusters but we can’t go without you so we’re just gonna wait until it comes out on VHS and then rent it. instead they took me to see Dead Poets Society again because I wasn’t with you the first time you saw it and JAY-ZEUS that movie sucked ass!!!! why did that have to happen!!!!!! that’s so dumb what the heck I think they should write another ending where neil dates that other cute boy and they write lots of poetry together and maybe move to a cabin in the woods where they can just read poetry all day and not deal with other lame people or other peoples’ lame feelings. the teacher can come to the cabin too maybe he was pretty nice

are you in a cabin? all Ben could find out from the library archives is that your uncle is named Wilbur Rinker and he’s 53 and unmarried and he lives in Conneticut when he’s not at his summer home and he’s a pediatrician. jeez, now you gotta live with your very own on-site kid doctor!!! does he let you do anything? we rode by your house and your bike is still out front which means you don’t have it so do you get to go anywhere ever? I hope it’s at least pretty there. I’ve know Vermont is pretty in the fall but I don’t know anything about it during the summer

oh yeah I’ve been working on a new Voice and I think it’s coming along splendidly, it’s called my Scottish Highlander voice because I finally watched Highlander and gee-whiz I wish I lived back then!! well I mean not really because there was lots of war and death and I’m not super good at fighting or anything but anyways I’ve been practicing my best scottish accent and I’m pretty sure I’m awesome at it. Stan says it sucks but honestly what does he know? I’d like to see him do better

this was long and kinda ramble-y but basically I miss you so so sosososo much and I wish you’d come over and I’ve never wished before for summer to be over when it’s only halfway done but I am now because everything sucks without you!!!! I was at the Barrens the other day and I found this stone by the river and I picked it up and it was so smooth and it was made up of all these little specks of black and white that made it look gray when you look at it from a distance and it would have been perfect for skipping and I remember that this was gonna be the summer where we learned to skip stones together but now it can’t be because you’re gone and I wholeheartedly refuse to learn without you. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry I let you leave I didn’t know what to do. I hope you’re not mad at me. 

hope you get this letter and you’re not just locked up in a room in Vermont with a kid doctor coming in to bang on your knees every three hours! why do they do that anyways it just feels weird and my reflexes are fine, I’m not dead yet am I? anyways I love you love you love you and reply as soon as you can because I’ve really got a whole load of nothing to do except wait by the mailbox!

your pal, your chum, your confidante, your bosom buddy, yer wee numpty,

Trashmouth Tozier

 

July 9, 1989

Dear Richie,

Oh, thank gosh you wrote, I’m bored out of my mind. It was a whole production trying to get your letter; Mom obviously doesn’t want me talking with you guys, so she went out to the mailbox before I could and took all the letters and bundled them up and read them all in her room, and then stuffed yours in the back of her closet. But I knew you’d write to me, I knew it, so when she went with Uncle Wilbur to go check on the petunias (there is a lovely garden here, Vermont is actually really pretty), I snuck into her room and found it. I read all of it and then put it back in the envelope and left it there so she hopefully wouldn’t notice I found it. So I’m relying on memory here to answer all your questions, sorry if I forget some things.

First, thank you for waiting to go see Ghostbusters II! You really didn’t have to. I’m glad you did, though. You guys are so nice. You think of everything. And also I told you about Dead Poets Society! You get now why I thought you wouldn’t like it? It sounds like you did like it a little though, and I agree with your idea about the two boys dating, although right now the idea of anyone voluntarily choosing to live in an isolated cabin sounds unrealistic. There is nothing to do here but read and read and look at the flowers and read some more. That might be nice if I weren’t practically under lock and key! They don’t shut me in my bedroom like I said but I am in a little house on a hill and there’s no one around for miles and since they won’t let me have my bike I’ve got no way of leaving the house, since the nearest town is too far to walk to! And they almost never leave the house at the same time, one of them is always watching me, unless they’re just popping out to examine the garden.

Okay, so the garden actually is really nice. And there’s a little pond and a field, it reminds me of that field in the Barrens. You know the one. But they say the pond is absolutely-completely not for swimming, which I think is a made up rule because it looks perfect for swimming. They just don’t want me doing anything. I can’t even run down the hill! They said I can go up and down the hill as long as I walk and don’t walk too fast, and I wear tall socks so I don’t get grass itch on my ankles. I think no amount of gorgeous petunias can make up for the fact that this is literally the most boring place on earth. And I thought Derry was bad!

Keep sending me letters. I want to know more about what you all are doing because it sounds infinitely more fun than my stupid summer. My Uncle Wilbur is a dreadful bore. I learned that phrase, “a dreadful bore”, from one of the books they’ve got here, Jane Eyre. It’s not bad, actually, and her life is a lot more exciting than mine, but I’m not sure I’d want to be her, either. At any rate, Uncle Wilbur sucks. He’s really tall and he’s got this terrible voice that sounds like he’s always about to cry. He’s older than my mom but he lets her make all the decisions, probably because she’s terrifying and he seems more easily terrifiable than most. Richie, I swear, I want you to shoot me in the face if I ever grow up to be like him.

Maybe we can still learn to skip stones together. I’ve got this pond here, and while they won’t let me swim in it I don’t see how they could stop me from skipping stones. I mean, I’m sure they could think up something, but it’s worth a shot. Maybe I can practice in my pond and you can practice at home, and we can let each other know how it goes? It’d be nice to have something to work on.

I love you too! And I’m not mad at you at all. Seriously. I’m not. You can’t stop my mom when she’s on the warpath. But you guys stuck up for me, and that’s what matters. Honestly, I’ll never forget the look on mom’s face when Bev told her to take her “goddamn hand off” me! Tell everybody thanks, and tell Beverly she’s a badass. Or don’t. She probably already knows.

I’m gonna figure out a way to get this posted, I promise. I’ll make it happen, one way or another. 

Your favorite boyfriend, hopefully your only boyfriend,

Eddie Kaspbrak

P.S. I’m glad I’m not there to hear your voice. Sorry, but I’m going to have to side with Stan on this one. It’s probably not good. They’re never good.


	25. July 13

July 13, 1989

Dear Eddie Mercury (get it??? like freddie. freddie mercury. the musician),

woah you are SUCH a bad boy…. stealing letters from your moms closet? somehow sneaking a letter out into the mailbox and getting it sent to me? you’re a regular rebel without a cause!!! although you do have a cause, and the cause is talking to me, and I’d say that’s a pretty good one. 

first of all, your mom and uncle are DEFINITELY lying to you, because ponds are made for swimming! what the hell is the point of a pond if not for swimming, just to sit there and be full of water? laaame. you definitely have to find a way to swim in it. and no running! they clearly dont know what fields are for, OR what children are for. like, you’re a kid! they gotta let you live a little! 

at least you’ve got a nice view, though, and you’re exploring some place new. Derry hasn’t changed one lick since you left, it’s just the same worn out streets and broken sidewalks and dumb old houses. except now it doesn’t have you here to make it better. god, I can’t wait till I can get out of this town!!! Bill was saying something yesterday about how he could take a gap year after high school and before college and go to England or something. doesn’t that sound fan-flippin-tastic? I think Big Bill would really get a kick out of England. he could take the Tube all around London and drink Tea at the Palace, maybe go to the Wax Museum or the big London Eye… (see, I know stuff about things too!! you’re not the only one that reads!!). I can just see it now, Big Bill Denbrough tipping his hat to the Queen. 

if we went to another country I think it should be a better one than that, though. everybody already knows everything about England. what about China? or Scotland! I’m still really into Scotland right now. we could go and see the Loch Ness Monster, Eds!!! I bet she’s really sexy. monsters are hot, like Bigfoot and Mothman; I found this weird book in Ben’s room with a list of a bunch of different creatures in them. they were all organized by the area they’re in— hey, wait, do you have any cool monsters like that in Vermont? maybe you’re shacking up with a Sasquatch right now! I could probably ask Ben about it. he knows all sorts of weird stuff, and I don’t really want to know why.

Mike also hangs out with us all the time now. oh, right, he told me to tell you hi in my letter. so did everyone else, so here’s a big ol’ “hey there” from Bill, Ben, Beverly, Stan, and Mike! he’s pretty cool. he took us to his farm a few days ago. he has a bunch of pigs and goats and sheep, and he named each one of them which was really sweet and kinda dorky but also I kept wondering how he could tell which one was which? all the pigs looked the same to me. anyways, apparently he’s not supposed to name any of them, except for maybe the goat, but definitely not the pigs or sheep, because he has to KILL those!! he hasn’t actually killed any of them yet but his grandpa keeps trying to get him to and it sounds totally terrible, he has to shoot them in the head with this bolt-gun he showed us that he probably wasn’t suppose to show us. can you imagine shooting something in the head??? the biggest thing I’ve ever killed is a spider, and that was really just in self-defense.

on that note, I can’t make any promises about shooting you in the face or anything. your little cheeks are just too adorable! but be warned, I can and will slap some sense into you if you go Dark Side, or just become lame like your uncle. sorry he’s so absolutely uncool, it sounds like a major drag. maybe you could come up with cool ways to prank him!!! let me know if you do. 

I LOVE your idea of learning together to skip stones, so I went out to the stream two days ago and tried to skip it one over the Kenduskeag. I think I’m gonna have to find a better spot, our part of the stream is really shallow and has a strong current and Bev said that’s the worst place to try to do it. she knows how, and she gave me a few pointers, which I now will pass on to you:

1\. get a flat rock, like a skinny one kinda like an oval

2\. hook your index finger over the top of the rock. you wanna get one that fits nicely in your hand so since you have tiny hands Eddie you might want a smaller rock. anyways the point is to be able to grip it well so you can send it spinning

3\. bend down/squat almost parallel with the water so you get a good angle. you are short and tiny so you probably can skip this step!

4\. snap your wrist forwards real fast like a “flick” she said and… i guess just throw the rock! she told me to practice the hand gesture so I did a little but then it made my wrist sore so I stopped. I’ll find a better place first, and then practice it. I think I’m gonna be awesome at this. it can’t be too hard, right?

oh also I told Bev you said she was a badass and she laughed and said “I know”.

anyways this letter is already WAAAY too long and I’m using up all of our paper!!! so I’ll end it here but anyways love you bunches honey bun and write me back as soon as you get this!

yer best laddie,

Trashmouth Tozier

P.S. MY VOICE IS AWESOME SHUT UP WHAT DO YOU KNOW


	26. July 17

July 17, 1989

Dear Richie,

First of all, and this is important so don’t skip over this: you are the hugest idiot I have ever met. You and your big mouth, Richie! I ran to the mailbox and got your letter out before Mom could find it, but what if she had gotten to it first? You can’t write stuff about how I’m a bad boy and stealing letters and stuff! You could’ve gotten me into huge trouble. I’m serious. We both have to be really careful, you know Mom will completely flip if she finds out I’ve been writing. to you. Next time, just be a lot… vaguer, in case she finds it. 

Okay. I’m still kind of upset about that because, come on, you really have to be more careful, but I’ll move on. Despite your consistent idiocy, your letter really cheered me up. I like thinking about spending a year in a different country, or maybe just living somewhere else completely. I do think that Bill would love England, although I’m not sure if he’d get to meet the Queen. Maybe if he got really famous. Jane Eyre was set in England, mostly in somewhere called Derbyshire, but the house in that really gave me the shivers. I finished the book a few days after I sent my last letter and now I’m reading Romeo and Juliet. That’s all in Verona, of course, and it makes me think we should go to Italy. Isn’t amazing how they get around the city by boats on the rivers? I think that’s terribly romantic. I’d love to ride in a gondola.

It’s ridiculous that Romeo and Juliet are only supposed to be 13 or 14, I never knew that before reading it. That’s like our age! They could have had so much more life ahead of them, so much time to work things out. I’m not quite done reading yet, but I obviously know how it ends. It’s supposed to be this great romance, but it’s actually just sad. Like, they were just dumb kids that made bad decisions and it ended up killing a bunch of people. I’d like to think, in their shoes, we’d be a little more responsible. It’s actually been making me think of you a lot, reading this. Partially because you keep quoting it— how do you know so much about Shakespeare, by the way? I wouldn’t peg you for liking this, it’s super sappy and is definitely going to make me cry, and we’ve already been over how much you hate those kinds of stories— but also it made me think of us. We’re not exactly like them, of course, but there’s the whole thing with my Mom hating you and not letting us be together, and then like how Romeo gets banished and has to go live in Verona for a time… It’s been making me think of our current situation, you know?

Right now I’m trying to do everything the way they want so they trust me a little more, and I think it’s been working. They actually let me go sit on the dock by the pond yesterday and eat a little picnic outside! Of course, they both had to sit a few yards away and keep an eye on me so I wouldn’t fall in and drown or something, and I had to be so slathered with bug spray that it still hasn’t come off, but it was a nice start. So no, I’m not gonna find cool ways to prank them, sheesh. I’m focusing at the moment on making them trust or like me as a person.

That’s another thing. I had a conversation with my uncle the other day. Like… an actual conversation. I was talking about Jane Eyre because I’d just finished reading it, and then he actually got really excited about it and said it was one of his favorite books when he was younger and we talked about it for almost a half hour. And it actually wasn’t a terrible boring discussion, although I’m sure it would have been to you. He’s really a conundrum, Uncle Wilbur. I think he’s a lot more interesting than he lets on. I feel a little bad calling him a “dreadful bore” in my first letter. He’s actually sort of… well, not nice really, and he still has that terrible shaky voice like he’s always on the verge of tears, and he’s very jumpy and strange. My analysis at the moment is that he is extremely terrified of the world and he thinks that if he has any fun or goes outside and lives at all he’ll like, die instantly or something. And I think he thinks the same thing about me, like I’m this small delicate thing it is his and my mom’s duty to shield from everything lest I be corrupted. Which is dumb, but I get it, and it makes me resent him a little less.

It’s still hard for me with my mom. I get where she’s coming from, I really do. I mean, I love her. She’s my mom. I don’t fully know why she is the way she is but this is the way it’s always been. I think I’m just at the point now where I’m realizing that she’s not right about everything, and I don’t have to do everything she says. But I can’t forgive her for the way she treated you, the things she said to you, or the things she still says about you to me. She says bad stuff about the others too, and a lot about Beverly. She says really weird things about Beverly. I don’t like to listen to her. I wish I could just make her understand and see you guys the way I see you guys, see how beautiful you all are. Especially you, Rich. But she doesn’t see it, and she only sees the bad parts of the world, and then that makes me feel terrible because if she feels that way about you then she must feel that way about me too, and… it’s all just so complicated.

But anyways, I’ve been talking to Uncle Wilbur, and I think he sort of likes me, and he brought up this idea of bringing me into town to a little bookshop if I wanted to get a journal or something? Which I love, because it means I’d get to get out of the house, but also if I get into town I have to believe there could be some way for me to get to a phone and call you! I don’t know at all if it could happen, but I’m holding out hope. 

I tried skipping stones today. It is much harder than I thought it would be! Like, it’s really hard! I tried to follow all your tips (well, Bev’s tips), but I still couldn’t get it to work right. I’m going to try again later. Let me know if you’re able to do it. I wonder which one of us will get the hang of it first. Wouldn’t it be funny if we got it at the exact same time, two states away from each other, without knowing?

The other night I looked out the window before I went to sleep and saw the moon and realized that, if you were looking at the moon, it was the exact same one. It made me feel like, in the grand scheme of things, we really aren’t that far away from each other. It made me want to cry a little with missing you, but I caught myself before I could. I read a little bit of Romeo and Juliet instead, and I found this line.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.” Isn’t that beautiful? I read this and then looked at the moon and I was sort of hit by how endless and, like, perfect the world is. And then I thought of you, and it was weird, because for a minute the moon looked like nothing compared to the memory of your face.

God, I’m so cheesy. I’m sorry. It’s late. Ugh, I always get so weird and rambly when I’m tired, why am I like this!! I’m just gonna stop writing and go to bed and send this in the morning.

But seriously, I love you.

Eddie Kaspbrak


	27. July 20-30

July 20, 1989

Dear Eddie Krueger,

wanted to apologize for that thing from earlier. I totally got it. no one needs to tell Richie Tozier twice. lips zipped. 

I wanna tell you a story that I haven’t told anyone. so you know my parents are weird (at best) and there’s just some altogether funkalicious things going on at my household. it’s kinda always been that way, or at least ever since I was really little. anyways when I was seven this thing happened that I don’t like to talk about loads and it’s not like some huge secret or anything but I guess it’s the reason I like Shakespeare so much, since you were wondering. 

so mom was doing her thing where she was like not in a super great place and started drinking etc. etc. and this was that time in 2nd grade that maybe you remember but our parents were supposed to come in to our lit class and help us with this presentation on a story that we liked? but this was that year that my dad was out of town for work a lot in florida and he couldn’t help me with it and mom was having a really hard time with him gone and so she couldn’t help me with my project. and it really wasn’t that big of a deal, but I came to class without a parent to help me. the teacher was really nice about it (Ms. Emily I think? I really liked her), but a couple of boys in our grade started making fun of me and stuff and then I guess word got spread around because you know how Derry is and so after school Patrick, you know, that Patrick, evil Patrick, he caught me when I was trying to leave and started saying all this stuff about my mom. he called her a bunch of things that weren’t true and a couple that were and at any rate all of them were too terrible to write down here. so I socked him in the face and he beat little 7 year old Trashmouth Tozier to a pulp. 

when I got home I didn’t really expect my mom to notice. that sounds mean, like she’s some kind of terrible person, but it’s okay. that’s just how it is, you know. I didn’t expect her to really look at my face and see, or if she did for it to really matter or make a difference. but that day when I got home she was in the living room, and she looked up when she came in, and she saw me, and she started to cry. she asked me what happened and I told her, not the specifics of course, but that a kid had hit me, and she seemed really, genuinely sorry about it. and she took me upstairs into her room and she pulled out this really old looking book from her bedside table and we laid on her bed together and she just started reading it to me. it was this big compendium of a bunch of Shakespeare plays. we made it through almost all of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that night, and then she let me take the book and read other plays. I read almost all of them. I might’ve skipped a couple of the histories cause I thought they were boring at first, but I at least read all the main stories. 

I still go into her room and get that book and read it sometimes, when everything gets really bad. I don’t think she notices. she’s never brought that night up, either, or tried to read with me again. I know it seems kind of silly and like not a big deal and probably your mom reads with you all the time but you know your Trashmouth hates mushy stories like that so it must’ve meant something. anyways, it was a dumb thing, but I know a lot of the lines now from my favorite plays, the ones like Midsummer and The Tempest and Romeo and Juliet, of course, the ones that I’ve read the most. it’s something about the language. it feels so romantic, and kinda… magic is the only way to describe it. 

if you ever tell anyone about this I will slap you silly, I swear to god. don’t you dare. just wanted to let you know that those words mean something special to me too, I guess. and I don’t think it’s rambly or weird, I think it’s lovely and you’re lovely and you remind me of magic. BUT SERIOUSLY, don’t say a word!!!! the Losers don’t need to know that under my charming, handsome, tough exterior there is a somewhat less tough but equally charming and handsome Richie.

haven’t gotten the hang of skipping stones yet. I spent like two hours on it yesterday, and on the tail end Bev was there to help me, but I keep just throwing them and they plop right into the stream. and it’s not the spot, we found a really good area for it, and Bev got five skips on a stone once! it’s really just me. Bev is so fed up, she keeps trying to show me and I’m not getting it. how are you faring? better, I hope. but also I hope not, because I’ll be damned if I’ll be beaten at an athletic-adjacent activity by little Eds!!!

I don’t know how I feel about Uncle Wilbur. he still sounds like a bit of a drag, and I don’t think any kiddie doctor can be THAT interesting, but if you say so. I wish I had an uncle. I only have Auntie June, dad’s big sister. she’s okay, but we never see her and her kids are super little and every time I’ve tried to play with them they just want to jump on me and kick me a lot. that would be okay except they’re actually pretty big for their age and you know I’m not exactly ripped, don’t have my perfect six pack (although I’m working on it), and last time they gave me bruises!!! I guess that’s just what kids are like. but, at any rate, we rarely ever see them.

but what I’m trying to say is extended family is hard and weird and parents can be worse and I’m sorry you gotta deal with that but also it can be nice to have people at all, and people that care, even if they care a little too much. and also don’t be mad on behalf at your mom, everything she said was in one ear and out the other, I don’t think I even remember half the things she said to me. it’s fine. she didn’t hurt me. I’m good. you have enough to deal with without trying to take care of me from states away. just focus on yourself!!!

oh yeah, and about Italy, I think we can make it happen. let’s start saving up, get a jar for loose change and stuff. we’ll get on the airplane the day after we get our diplomas, yeah? we’ll spend the year eating gelato and… shoot, I need to learn more Italy things. what are some Italy things?

looking forward to your next letter,

Trashmouth Tozier

 

July 28, 1989

Dear Eds,

hey so I was thinking over what I wrote last letter and I’m realizing maybe I wasn’t careful enough. is that why you haven’t written back yet? or maybe you just haven’t had time. it’s fine. I’ll wait. I’m just getting a little antsy over here waiting for your next letter. but I’m sure it’s fine! you’re probably just writing pages and pages.

if it wasn’t cause of that, and you’re mad at me or something, just write me and let me know and I’ll send 50 pages of apologies and 7 mixtapes, ok?? I’ve been thinking it over and trying to figure out if I did anything wrong and I can’t think of anything but I’m sure there’s probably like 100 different things it could be so just like… in case it’s something like that just let me know okay?

wait okay as I’m writing this I realize is this one of the things that’s “idiotic” and not “vague” enough? would this get past your mom’s pre-screening? hahah I’m sure it’s fine you’re smart you wouldn’t let her read this stuff and anyways I don’t know if I’m smart enough to figure out how to write to you while pretending that we’re not writing at all. we’re probably fine. this isn’t dumb to send right? I’m not making things worse by saying all of this right

probably just reading too much into things,

Trashmouth Tozier

P.S. if you’re Mrs. K I am totally just making all of this up and Eds and I have definitely NOT been writing each other this is out of the blue and he doesn’t know a thing about it

 

July 30, 1989

hey okay I really regret that last letter I don’t know why I sent that I think that was maybe incredibly dumb and uhhhh maybe could have made things a whole lot worse on your end. I went to the post office yesterday to see if maybe they hadn’t sent it yet cause I sort of immediately regretted it after the postman took it away but they had already sent it and there was nothing I could do. real sorry bout that. hope your mom isn’t finding these. if so, we’re… what do the kids call it nowadays? screwed. 

hoping for the best case explanation of your radio silence and increasingly doubting my life decisions and my big goddamn mouth,

Trashmouth Tozier


	28. The Code

August 2, 1989

Dear Bill,

Hello! It’s nice to write to you. I have missed you and all of our friends while I have been here in Vermont. It is beautiful, though. There is a pond on our property and a garden and these huge fields, and I have been having a great time exploring them. My Uncle Wilbur also has a large collection of books that I have been reading. I am reading Romeo and Juliet right now. I really like it so far! I am at the part right now where Friar Lawrence sends Friar John to Mantua to tell Romeo of their plans. I know it doesn’t end well, but it’s still nice to imagine that there could be some hope for those two star-crossed lovers. I like that term, “star-crossed”. We can see all the stars from here because there’s no city light blocking us, it’s really amazing. I like to try to remember the constellations but I never really knew much about that stuff. What’s the name of that big bright star right in the middle of the sky? You should be able to figure it out. You have lots of resources and people to ask about it, whereas I can only look up at the stars above, and the more important stuff down below them.

Probably you have forgotten all about me in the past few months, but that’s okay, I’m sure you’re doing fun things with the club. How are all of you doing? One thing I was wondering about was if there are any good movies out, I’m asking Mom while I write this, we’re at the dining table together so she can help me spell everything in this letter, but she doesn’t know about any. New movies, that is. Everything is pretty much great here, and (if I can say this without you getting too jealous) it’s actually a great vacation. 2 other things I was wondering about was if you had the summer reading list, and if so if you could send me the names of the books so I could get them when Uncle Wilbur and I go out on the town on Wednesday. Pay a visit to Stan, too, and tell him hi and that I Miss him a lot, like I miss all of you!

I have to wrap this up, Mom says I can only use one piece of paper for this because we don’t have that much left in the house. Mom was looking all over for more paper and couldn’t find any, and you know how good she is at finding things. So paper is one of the things that I’ll get when I go out to town with Uncle Wilbur on Wednesday. Anyways, I’ll talk to you soon and I’m glad to be able to write this!

All my love,

Eddie Kaspbrak

 

“What the hell?” Richie put the paper down. “What did I just read?”

Bill leaned back on Richie’s bed, where they were both sitting. “I know. I-it’s so w-weird that he would w-write me and not you. His mom m-must have found your letters, but he s-somehow convinced her to l-let him t-talk to me.”

“No, I mean, I don’t understand what I just read.” Richie picked the paper up again and frowned at it. “This is weird on so many different levels. I don’t understand what he’s even really saying in the middle paragraph. It’s so scattered. Eddie’s got better grammar than this, too. And look at this!” Richie jabbed at one line. “He knows the name of that star! It’s Jupiter! I know he knows that, we were talking about it on that night, that night we first kissed— that’s like, exactly how he described it, too, “that big bright star right in the middle of the sky”. That’s almost word for word.”

“L-let me see.” Bill took the letter from him. “H-hold on. Right after that, he s-says, “you should be able to f-figure it out. You h-have lots of r-resources and _people to ask about it_ ”.” Bill slowly looked up. “H-he’s talking about you. You’re the only one that w-would know about that, that c-conversation about Jupiter. This letter is f-for you, Richie.” He handed it back.

Richie stared down at it. “Oh my god. You’re right. Wait, you’re right! The kid is a genius! That’s what he’s talking about, with Romeo and Juliet.” A smile slowly spread across his face. “I was really confused about that. Eddie’s a fast reader, right? He read all of Jane Eyre in, like, a week. But last time he wrote to me, he said he was around halfway done with Romeo and Juliet. It didn’t take him all this time to read, like, one act. He chose that part of Romeo and Juliet, on purpose. He’s Friar Lawrence and you’re Friar John and I’m Romeo! This whole thing is a riddle. Jesus, that little fucker is smart.”

“B-but what was he t-trying to say?” Bill said. “There’s no p-point in sending a whole c-coded letter if he j-just wanted to let you know he w-was okay.”

“That’s what we’ve gotta figure out, Big Bill,” Richie said. “There’s something important in here, something he’s trying to tell me. I’m gonna figure it out. I have to.”

It took two hours for Richie to get it. Some things he understood sooner, like Eddie’s reference to the “star-crossed lovers” as a clear allusion to the two of them, or Eddie’s deliberate references to how his mom was reading the letter before he sent it out, proving the necessity of the code. Richie took out a red pen and began to underline what he considered key phrases in the letter, like the phrase “you know how good she is as finding things”.

“He’s telling me that his mom found our letters!” Richie said. “Damn, I knew it! I suck so bad. I should’ve been so much more careful. Like this. This is crazy careful. If I didn’t know better, this could read like a normal letter.” 

Next, he underlined (several times, in bright red) the sentence “the more important stuff down below”. He was convinced that Eddie meant that the next paragraph, the second and middle one, held the key to Eddie’s important coded message. 

“The first one is just setting everything up, and letting us know that there’s more going on than meets the eye. The second part, that’s where the meat is. I just don’t get what it is yet. He just keeps talking about how great everything is, and then asks about movies, which is weird, because I already told him loads about the movies. And about the summer reading list. Does he actually want the summer reading list? Is there something in one of the books?”

It was Bill who, taking a blue pen to the page on his fourth read-through, circled the passages about Uncle Wilbur. “Look, h-here. This is w-weird.”

“The whole thing is weird,” Richie groaned. “We’re never gonna get it.”

“N-no, look!” Bill pointed to the parts he had circled. “He says the s-same thing twice, d-doesn’t he? About g-going to town with his Uncle on W-Wednesday. It must b-be important, s-something he wanted you to notice.”

Richie frowned at it. “Okay. That’s something, I guess. Wait. He wrote about that before at one point. Hold on.” He leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed a small pile of letters that had been shoved underneath it. He took the papers up and began to rifle through them. It took a minute, but he finally found the page he was looking for, and held it out for Bill to read. “Look. He said that he was excited to get into town because he thought he might be able to _call me_. What if he’s gonna try to call me? Oh my gosh. That’s got to be it.”

“B-but when? And h-how?”

“How I don’t know, but if he was smart enough to write this piece of art he must be able to figure it out somehow. When is a good question, though. I can’t just sit by my phone all Wednesday. I mean, maybe I can, but it might be a bit difficult.”

And so they scoured the letter for any reference to what time Eddie’s call should be expected. Once Richie found it, he found a little dumb that he hadn’t seen it sooner.

“Bill,” he said, shaking the boy’s shoulder. It was getting late, and Bill had been nodding off while trying to re-read Eddie’s old letters again for any new information. Bill jerked to consciousness, and Richie didn’t wait for anything to shove the letter inches away from his nose. “I found it! Bill, I found it! I’m a genius! I’m so cool! Einstein ain’t got nothing on me! The brain is a muscle, so I must be fucking ripped, Bill—“

Bill groaned, snatched the piece of paper out of Richie’s hands. “What? Just t-tell me, already.”

“Okay, so I was looking for numbers, right? Because he had to have hidden it somewhere. But the only numbers he has anywhere in this number are two twos and a one. He says two twice, once up at the beginning when he’s talking about Romeo and Juliet, and the other in that paragraph when he’s asking for the reading list. But the one in the middle paragraph is written like the number, and the other two and the one are spelled out, so I got to thinking that that had to be on purpose, that the second two was different, yeah? You with me? So I was like, what’s special about that two? Why’d he spell it out? Maybe that could be the time, two o’clock. And then I saw it! The “M”!”

“The M?” Bill yawned.

“Eddie has very particular handwriting. It’s very small, very uniform, right? And I didn’t see it at first, because an uppercase “M” is almost the same in his handwriting as a lowercase “m”, but once I saw it I can’t unsee it! It’s right there. “Pay a visit to Stan, too, and tell him hi and that I Miss him a lot”. It’s uppercase. So I was like, that’s obviously important. And I got to looking to see if he capitalized anything else out of place, but he didn’t, only the first letters of each sentence like he always does, that dumb grammarian, but that’s it! He did that one out of place so I would notice! It’s the whole second paragraph. The first letters of each sentence. That’s why everything is phrased so weirdly and it’s all out of place. Taken out and put together, the first letters go “P-H-O-N-E-2-P-M”. Phone, at 2pm! I was right! Holy shit, I was so right! That’s not a coincidence! If we were in the 40’s they would hire me to be once of those code-crackers who intercept the German messages and decipher them, I am that good at this.”

Bill laughed. “It still t-t-took you almost t-two and a half hours. B-but yeah,” he conceded. “You d-did it.”

“Wednesday at 2pm, I’ll be talking to Eddie.” Richie’s heart swelled in his chest so big he thought it might hurt his ribs. Hearts weren’t supposed to get so big. They should stay in their place. But his just wouldn’t. “Please, dear God, let him pull this off.”


	29. The Call

1:34 - Richie paced anxiously back and forth in front of the phone. It sat on his bed, smirking up at him, silent. Richie knew it wasn’t time, not yet, but he stayed by the phone just in case Eddie called early.

1:41 - He had told the others they should come over and talk to Eddie too, but only Stan and Bill could make it. Stan showed up first, and, like the walker of a pack of inquisitive dogs, Richie dragged himself away from the phone and over to the front door to let Stan in.

1:47 - Richie sat cross-legged on his bed, phone in his lap, staring at it. He sent Stan to get the door when Bill knocked. He wouldn’t move a muscle, not unless it was his hand picking up the phone when Eddie called.

1:50 - “Why hasn’t he called yet?”

“C-calm down, Richie, it’s still t-t-ten ’til.” 

“I know, I know. It’s just… he’d better call.”

1:58 - Richie’s hand strayed closer to the phone. Stan shot him an exasperated glance. Richie jutted his chin out and gazed back defiantly, hand settling upon the phone. Just to make it easier to pick up, you know, when the time came.

2:00 - The thin red second hand on Bill’s watch struck high 12, and Richie looked down at the phone expectantly. 

“He might not c-call immediately,” Bill warned. “T-t-two was probably m-more of an estimate.”

2:01 - Richie gazed at the phone like a struck deer at the hunter: wounded, accusatory. “He said two.”

“Richie,” Stan said. “Come on. Let’s play cards or something to pass the time.”

2:06 - Stan won the third game of five card draw. He always had a good poker face. Richie wasn’t playing, but he let Bill and Stan use his pennies for gambling, ‘cause it wasn’t any fun without something to bet with. Richie didn’t think it was any fun anyways, and he sat alternately gazing out the window and at the phone in his lap.

2:09 - “You’re awful k-kwuh-quiet,” Bill said. 

Richie didn’t reply. He traced a zigzagging pattern with his finger across the top of the phone. 

“You’re sure you decoded it right,” Stan said. “It didn’t say, like, 2:30, or something?”

“It said two,” Richie said.

“You’re completely sure? Because—“

“He said two! I’m not wrong.” Richie glowered at him, stopped the pattern. “And he’s gonna call. He has to call.”

“Even if he doesn’t, you’ll just write some more letters,” Stan said. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s so easy,” Richie said, his voice thick with venom. “It’s no biggie, not that important, it’s not the end of the world. I’m doing just fine, summer has been real swell, it’s just awesome to finally figure out who I am and what I want and then have him taken away for weeks and weeks and barely be able to talk to him and not about anything real, because his mom apparently ruins everything and finds everything out. It’s totally fine if he doesn’t call me, it’s not like I care or anything, it’s not like I miss him every night, it’s not like—“

The phone rang.

Richie blinked down at it. What was it doing, ringing? It was suddenly alien technology that he had no idea how to operate.

“What are you doing? Go on!” Stan gestured to the phone.

“Pick it up,” Bill urged.

“Oh, shit, right!” Richie grabbed the phone and yanked it up to his ear. 

There was a heavy breathing on the other end. 

“Hello?” Richie’s mouth was very dry. He should have drank water in preparation. Why hadn’t he prepped enough?

“Richie,” Eddie said, and a smile flooded Richie’s face.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” The words came easily. Oh, and he had been afraid he wouldn’t know how to talk to Eddie anymore. What a ridiculous thought. “What’s crackin’, Sweaty Eddie?”

“Oh, don’t call me that. That’s not gonna be the new thing, is it? Eddie Spaghetti is bad enough. Man, I forgot how much talking to you sucks.”

“Ditto. Hey, loverboy, you write some pretty tough codes, but nothing outsmarts The Big Dick.”

“The _what_?”

“Richie. Richard. Dick. I am a man of many names.”

Stan hit Richie in the arm. “Let us talk to him!”

“In a minute, in a minute.” Richie waved them away. “Bill and Stan are here, want to talk to you.”

“In a minute,” Eddie echoed. “I’m so glad you figure out my letter. I was worried I made it too hard.”

Richie grinned. “The only thing you make too hard is—“

“Richie!” Stan slapped his arm again, harder this time. “We’re in the same fucking room!”

“I don’t know how long Uncle Wilbur will be gone,” Eddie said, voice crackling from the other side. “He made me promise to stay at the bookstore so he could pop over and get some medicine and talk to his friend who worked there. I’m at the payphone just outside, and if I get caught I’m done for.”

“You’re a regular James Bond with all this sneaking and subterfuge. Seems like the country lifestyle is teaching you a lot.”

“Everything but how to skip a stone.”

“You still haven’t gotten it?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

After a brief tussle with Bill and Stan, Richie reluctantly handed the phone over, and each got their fair share of time to catch up and ask all the important questions and tell Eddie everything that was going on back home, which was not much. Richie grabbed the phone back from Bill as soon as there was a lull in the conversation, shooing the others away. They exchanged knowing glances and left him to go grab snacks in the kitchen.

“They’re gone,” Richie said. “So we can actually talk.”

“What are you gonna say that you couldn’t in front of them?”

“Nothing, just that I love you and miss you, like, way too much. I wish I could be there with you and help with everything. It must suck not having anyone to talk to.”

“It does. I’ve been talking to Uncle Wilbur a little bit more, but it’s weird. I don’t know how much he knows, about why Mom really sent us here. I’m not sure she told him about… you know, everything. Us. I don’t know what he’d think if he found out.”

“Well, you at least get to talk to me now. Does that help at all? Just hearing this silky smooth voice?”

“Definitely.”

They sat in beautiful, swelling silence. Richie finally had Eddie right there, only a phone connection away, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say. It was enough to just hear him breathe.

“Love is a smoke raised with the fumes of sighs,” Eddie said quietly.

“You finished Romeo and Juliet.” 

“Yeah, days ago. I’m a fast reader. I’m on Wuthering Heights now. It’s a lot weirder. I don’t know what I think.”

“Haven’t read it. You’ll have to tell me all about it.” Richie paused. “Are you gonna keep writing letters to Bill for me?”

“I don’t think I can. Mom really only let me send that one so I could get the summer reading list.”

“She found everything?”

“Yeah. I guess I’m not as good a super-spy as I thought I was.”

“Well, we’re talking now, aren’t we? You found a workaround.”

“I’m just gonna miss you. You could try sending me letters, but I think she’d just hide them or throw them out before I could read them. She’s really upset.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t think so. Just be okay. Are you okay? What’s going on with you? I didn’t ask, did I?”

“Same old, same old. Endless Derry summers, you know. Never thought I’d wish so hard for school to start.”

“Any run-ins with the Bowers Gang?”

“Yeah, once. He said I was a pansy and I said, hey, man, I’m sorry your entire face looks like a taint, but you don’t have to take it out on me.”

“Really? You really said that?”

“Nah. I thought about it, though. I was going to, but apparently the others didn’t want to die or something dumb like that, so they pulled me away before I could.”

“That’s probably a good thing. Promise me you’ll at least live enough to see me home safe.”

“Aw man, a tall order. We’ve still got two more weeks to go. But I guess, for you…”

“Shit. He’s coming back. I gotta go, Richie.”

“Wait, already? But I didn’t—“

“I’m sorry, I really gotta go! I’ll find a way to talk to you.”

“You’d better,” Richie said. “Wait, Steady Eddie, one thing—!”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, dummy.”

“Bye,” Richie said, but Eddie had already hung up.


	30. Bullshit

Richie flipped the page and adjusted his glasses, peering down at the fine print. God, this book was a menace. The only copy he had been able to find at the library was this old, fraying paperback, and in order to conserve the page count it looked as if the printers had jammed the words together, squishing them so small and near to each other that each paragraph was a struggle to read visually, as if the language itself wasn’t enough. But despite himself, Richie found himself drawn into the world of the novel. He had only checked the book out two days ago, but he was already on chapter nine, and his incredulousness at the heightened drama of the story grew with each passage.

The phone rang. Richie picked it up absentmindedly, flipping another page. “Bill, Wuthering Heights is crazy. Listen to this sentence. Catherine— this chick, she’s so wild, she’s wilder than me, Bill— she’s in love with Heathcliff, this dark broody type, and it’s this super intense love, right, but she hasn’t told him she loves him, and— listen, listen to this: “Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath— a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I _am_ Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind— not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.” Isn’t that fucking nuts? Emily Brontë had it going on, man.”

“I know.”

Richie paused, frowned. “Wait— Bill?”

There was shaky, breathless laughter from the other line. “No. Richie, it’s me.”

“ _Eds?_ ” Richie slammed the book closed and sat up straight, snapped himself to attention. “Oh my god, what? Is it really you?”

“It’s really me. And that’s a great part. You’re liking it so far?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s fierce as hell, not what I expected, but that’s not important! You’re calling me! We’re talking!”

“Yeah.”

Richie waited for more, but it didn’t come. “Um, sorry, “yeah”? What does “yeah” mean? Give me something to work with here.”

“I’m at the payphone.”

“Again? Damn, Eddalicious, you’re so hardcore. What if you get caught?”

“I can’t.”

“Whaddaya mean, you can’t? You invisible now or something? Did you take a dip in a radioactive pond?”

“I mean, Uncle Wilbur knows. He’s right outside. Heck, he gave me the quarters.”

Richie sat in stunned silence. “ _What?_ Why?”

“Because he feels bad for me.” Eddie swallowed. There was a strange quality to his voice, and Richie wished he could see his face, know what was going on in his head. But he couldn’t, so he just waited out the silence, and eventually Eddie spoke. “We went to the pharmacy today. To pick up my prescriptions. Mom got them transferred over here, right?”

“Right,” Richie echoed.

“Well, uh, Uncle Wilbur’s a doctor, right? A pediatrician. And he started talking to the pharmacist really confused about something. He started raising his voice, he was holding my new inhaler they had ordered and got real angry, and the pharmacist was saying something about how it was just a transfer of the same prescription from home, and he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Eddie. Hold up. You’re okay, right? Are you okay? You’re not— not dying or something.” Richie’s heart was stuck somewhere between the first and second beat and refused to make a sound until Eddie replied.

“That’s just it. I’m okay. I’m completely okay.”

Richie let out a breath. “Okay. Well, that’s good, right? What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Richie. Nothing at all. I’m… I’m healthy.”

“What? I don’t understand. Your asthma, your—“

“It’s bullshit. The pills, the prescriptions, they’re al bullshit. Uncle Wilbur said they’re something called… gazebos? They’re fake medicine, it’s just flavored water in my inhaler.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ”

“Mom made it all up, mom and that doctor, Greta’s dad, they made this whole thing up, my entire life—“ Eddie’s voice broke. “I’ve always thought there was something wrong with me. A lot of things, actually, but they all pointed to that I’m small and I’m weak and my body doesn’t work right, but it does. I’m just right. I can’t believe she made it up.”

“Eds, I’m so sorry.”

“And you know what else? I told Uncle Wilbur why we’re really here, that she caught me with you and thinks time away will fix me, will make me not gay or something, and he got this terrible look on his face. I was so scared for a second that he was mad at me, but he wasn’t. He’s mad at my mom, he’s livid. I told him the rest of everything, the letters and all, and he told me to go make this phone call to you and then we’re going back to the house and he’s gonna let her have a piece of his mind.”

“Woah. Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Are you… are you nervous? Do you think that’s gonna go well?”

“I don’t think it matters,” Eddie said. “Look, if there’s nothing wrong with me, and we both know it, then she doesn’t have anything on me. She can’t keep me home, she can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m not fragile, and I don’t have to stay inside or not have any fun or take my bullshit goddamn medicine. Everything’s gonna be different now. It’s got to be. She can’t keep me from seeing you unless she plans on taking me out of school, and I know she’s not gonna do that. And now that Uncle Wilbur knows everything she can’t take me away to here over breaks. She’s gonna have to work with me, compromise.” He let out a long sigh. “I can’t believe this is actually happening. This is my real life.”

“Me neither,” Richie said.

“It’s really goddamn upsetting, and I don’t think I know what to do, and it might get really crazy once we go back to the house, but I’m also sort of happy, you know? Like, I can delete all those alarms on my watch. I can just, I don’t know, live like a person in the world. I wonder if I always knew, deep down, that there was nothing wrong with me. ‘Cause it feels like it should be harder to accept, but it’s not. It makes sense.”

Richie nodded. “I think so, too.”

“I just wanted to call. Talk to you, now that I can. Let you know, about everything.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Hey, Richie.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a good listener.”

“When I’m not talking, that is.”

“Well, yeah. But always. You make me feel… I don’t know, heard. Thanks.”

“It’s just ‘cause I love you. No biggie.”

“It is a biggie.”

“Okay, I really want to break the mood right now because there are so many things I could do with “It is a biggie”, but I’m not going to. Aw, shucks, I just did, didn’t I?”

They both laughed.

There was a faint exchange on the other line, and then: “I think I gotta…” 

“Go,” Richie said. “Break a leg. Call me.”

“I will,” Eddie promised. “Also, Wuthering Heights is awesome, and I’m glad you’re reading it, because now we can talk about it.”

“I know. Now go on, kid, go face your mom. It won’t be too bad.”

“God, I hope not. Thanks. Talk to you soon.” Click.

Richie slowly lowered the phone back to the receiver, but his eyes stayed trained on it. He thought for a good long while about a lot of things, but his thoughts kept coming back to one thing Eddie had said, until, after a few minutes, it clicked. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he said aloud. “ _Placebos._ ”


	31. Skipping Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: canon-typical references to/implications of physical and sexual abuse

It was Friday, August 14th, almost a week since Eddie’s revelation on the phone. They had spoken a few times since then, but they had only been relatively brief conversations, mostly for Eddie to fill Richie in on the state of the Vermont household. Uncle Wilbur was not speaking to Eddie’s mom at the moment, leaving Eddie was caught in the midst of a strange battle of wills, but one beneficial outcome was that Richie and Eddie could now talk almost whenever they wanted to, and from Eddie’s home phone. 

For that reason, Richie had been spending most of his week at home, waiting in his room by the phone for whenever Eddie would decide to call, and entertaining himself in the meantime with candy, a 500 piece puzzle strewn across his hardwood floor, and, of course, Wuthering Heights. However, earlier than day Richie had made the mistake of mentioning this state of inaction to Eddie, who immediately took umbrage with it.

“What? You can’t be serious. You’re not just wasting your summer in your room waiting for me to call.”

“I’m not wasting it! I’m reading a great book. And I’m getting to talk to you whenever you’re free.”

“Jesus, Rich! Why didn’t you tell me? We can just set up a time. Like, I’ll call you Saturday at 2:00. How’s that?”

“I mean, that sounds fine, but I’m really—“

“Richie, go out. Live your life. Don’t just wait around for me to call! I can’t believe I even have to tell you this. Why can’t you take care of yourself without me having to remind you? Would you even sleep if I didn’t say so?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll go out if you lay off me!”

And so here Richie was, heading out on his bike towards the Barrens. He hadn’t made plans with anybody, but he was actually okay being alone right now. He thought he’d go up to the more placid spot of the Kenduskeag a ways upriver and practice skipping stones, something he hadn’t done in too long. He’d been hoping to get at least one stone skipping by the time Eddie got back.

The wooded area around was still, devoid of any signs of humanity, as its name implied. Life in other shapes, however, was all around. As he urged his bike up the dirt path, Richie had to swerve to narrowly avoid running over a caterpillar creeping across the way. Birds chattered their gossip back and forth overhead; Richie didn’t know all the calls but he could recognize the chirps of cardinals, even if he couldn’t catch a glimpse of any. The shorter trees reached their untrimmed arms out over the path, and Richie had to lean away from their leafy embraces. Soon, they would catch fire and burn yellow, orange, red, and then shrivel to a skeletal crisp, but for now they were soft and bright green, and the few that he couldn’t avoid brushed tenderly against his cheek.

He reached the uphill riverbank. The Kenduskeag, only a stream down near the entrance to the Barrens where the Losers usually played, was closer to a river up here: but it didn’t gulp with the feverish, rushing intensity of many big rivers, it instead sat in near stillness, only small curlicues in the water betraying its movement. The water was dark and deceptively deep beneath its surface, and, unlike the water striders perched upon its tension, Richie’s stones always disappeared with a splash into its depths.

He rolled to a stop and clambered off his bike, letting it fall to the ground. His mind was already set upon stone-skipping and his eyes skittered across the ground in search of appropriate rocks, so it took him longer than it should have to realize that he was not alone.

He heard her before he saw her. It was a sharp noise, a sniff, and a little shuddering wet exhale. Richie looked up. “Bev?”

“Oh, God.” She was sitting on a rock by the bank a few yards upstream, her back to him. She dragged a freckled arm across her eyes and didn’t turn to look at him. “Richie?”

“Are you okay?” Richie took a few steps towards her.

“No! Don’t come over here.” Her voice was strange. Richie had never heard Beverly sound like that before. She had definitely been crying— still was. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and let out a groan. 

“Bev, it’s okay,” Richie said, taking another slow step forwards, hands raised in caution. 

“No, it’s not.” She laughed, a bitter thing more like a hiccup, or, god forbid, a sob. “Fuck. Why are you here?” Her shoulders were trembling, but Richie still couldn’t see her face.

“I was gonna practice skipping stones.” Another step. “Why are you here?”

“I thought I’d be alone. You haven’t been out much this week,” Bev said. “I didn’t think you’d come here.” She spoke slowly, trying to keep each syllable level, calm, but it was too late already to pretend that everything was fine.

“What’s wrong? Bev, what happened?” He slowly, gently, reached his hand out and placed it on her shoulder. He was surprised by the tension that flooded her body, the way she jerked away from his touch. It was like an electric shock, the instinctive way she recoiled, and as she turned to face him the reason why was in blue and purple watercolors across her cheekbone.

“Oh, shit,” Richie said. He drew away.

“Goddammit.” Beverly curled her hands into fists on her knees, stared at the ground. When her short shock of ginger hair hung in front of her face it obscured almost everything, but not quite enough. He had already seen it. 

“Someone hurt you.”

“ _No_.” Her tone was scathing. “How did you guess?”

“Bowers?” 

“You really think I’d cry over Henry fucking Bowers?”

Richie didn’t. But he didn’t want to keep guessing any more. 

She ground her teeth, jaw clenching and unclenching, before she spoke again. “You’re not gonna tell anyone.”

“No, I won’t, promise.”

“It wasn’t a question. You’re not telling anyone. Not Mike, not Stan, not Ben. Definitely not Bill. More than anyone else, not Bill.”

“I won’t.”

She finally looked up, eyes directed at the sky now. Her expression was tightly controlled, lips thin and eyebrows furrowed, but her eyes betrayed her, and with a fluttering blink a tear beaded in the edge of her vision. “It’s not even a big deal. This isn’t some huge thing.”

Richie licked his lips, unsure of how exactly to phrase this. He wasn’t great with tact, sometimes. “Sorry, but it sorta feels like it is.”

“Well, it isn’t. You don’t know anything about this. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re right,” Richie said. “I don’t know anything about this. Do you… do you wanna tell me?”

Beverly took a deep breath, and finally looked Richie in the eye. She let it out on a shaky long exhale. “No. I really don’t.”

“Okay. That’s okay. Do you want to just sit here?”

She nodded, bit her lip, and her face screwed up a little, like she couldn’t help it anymore. But she scooted over, and Richie folded himself into the space she made for him next to her, wrapping his arms around his knees. 

And then Beverly cried. She cried for a long while. Richie didn’t look at her, just sat next to her in the early August warmth and looked out over the still river. She sobbed hard, and eventually, after an immeasurable amount of time— Richie thought it could have been a minute or it could have been ten— she let her head rest on Richie’s shoulder. It bounced and shook as she gasped for air, but Richie stayed very still, stiller than the water, stiller than the rock beneath them, and eventually the gasps turned to shudders turned to rattles turned to breaths.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Beverly said, her voice a little calmer, a little lower. 

“Okay.”

“I never talk about it. Not ever. I don’t want to give him the fucking satisfaction. It’s not worth talking about. I’m not just gonna sit around and cry about it my entire life. Then he wins.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s wrong. You guys are my friends. You care about me. I have people. I don’t need him. I’m not his. I’m not anybody’s.”

“No, you’re not.”

“He’s nothing. He can’t hurt me. It doesn’t even hurt me, I’m better than that, I’m stronger than that, because I’m not alone. I’m not gonna let him hurt me.”

“No.” Richie paused. “But you know it’s okay to be hurt, right? To feel hurt.”

“No. He can get his hands on my face, on me, and he can get his blood in my blood and it can show in my hair and my eyes and the spots on my skin, but like fuck if I’m gonna let him get in my head. Nothing matters if I’ve got my own mind. My face doesn’t matter. He can paint it any color he wants. My head is mine, and he’s not allowed in.”

Richie nodded, and was quiet. 

“He’s not allowed in,” Bev repeated, little more than a whisper now. “He doesn’t get my tears. He doesn’t get my smile. Fuck that. He doesn’t get my life. Come my 18th birthday, I’m out of here. He won’t have anything on me. I’ll move far far away and I won’t even think about him anymore, I won’t even remember him. I won’t even remember.”

She was quiet for a long while after that, and they just breathed in rhythm with each other, and Richie didn’t need to say anything. He thought it was probably better if he didn’t. He didn’t have a thing to say, anyways. What do you say about stuff like that? There’s things too big for words.

Eventually, she stretched out, extending her stiff and tired legs out across the rock, and Richie followed suit. “Come on,” she said, and climbed off the rock onto the bank. She stooped and searched along the water-lapped riverside, and Richie didn’t know what for until she straightened holding two perfectly smooth, flat round stones. She handed one to him.

“Watch me,” she said, and bent so she was close to the river’s edge. She stared out across the water, sending her gaze skipping across the surface before the stone. She looked out at that water for a long time before coming to some sort of unspoken understanding with it, and then gave a curt nod, wound up, and flicked the stone out. It skipped five times before disappearing elegantly into the current.

Richie watched her, and he watched her well. When it was his turn to take his place beside her on the rocky shore, he finally understood. He didn’t just look at the river, he _saw_ it. He saw the stone’s trajectory curve out across the water, its geometric bouncing path, and he saw the river’s bubbling nod at him. He nodded back. And he threw.


	32. Calendar

Richie never had a calendar; he wasn’t the organized type. The floor of his bedroom was a mural: dark red carpet interrupted by darker splashes of Coca-Cola stains, textured with haphazardly strewn week-old clothes, punctuated by discarded tapes for his walkman and used candy wrappers and torn pages of half-written love letters. It was a mine-field, walking through it, and Stan too often took on a parental role when he came over, telling Richie he was impossible, and to clean his damn room. Richie never did, but when Stan got him a laundry basket one day last year, Richie began to actually collect the clothes up into it. He could tell by the way Stan’s fingernails began scrabbling at the corners of skin between nail and thumb that Stan hated the mess, so he cleaned sometimes, just a little, just for him. Eddie, too, couldn’t stand Richie’s room, but it was more a combination of the smell inside and the fact that he said every teenager’s room was a disgusting trash heap (except for his own, of course). 

Richie knew the path through the mess, though, and it comforted him in a way. The disorder, the chaos, the gatherings of objects on shelves and nightstands and every convenient surfaces, they crowded him and chattered to him and the way they smelled reminded him that he was alive.

So no, he never kept a calendar. It seemed pointless, anyways; his plans were always last-minute, and big events he could remember well enough without having to write them down. Or, rather, one of his friends would remind him when he inevitably forgot. 

But this summer, in so many ways, was an anomaly. A first. First kiss, first love, first new friends, first time Eddie had left… and so, for that last first specifically, it was also the summer of his first calendar.

It wasn’t a normal, store-bought one with large photos of cats or scantily clad swimsuit models or posed portraits of the newest boyband. Of course, it was made by hand. Richie drew out the square little boxes— only for the months he needed, July and August— and with each passing day took a large red Sharpie to the paper, which he had tacked to the wall beside his bed. He X’d out every day, creeping slowly closer and closer to August 22nd, which he had circled in large, broad strokes and labeled “EDDIE”.

The night before the 22nd, he couldn’t sleep. He had turned the light off sometime after chapter 27 of Wuthering Heights (he wasn’t big on clocks, either), and laid in dark anticipation. It was a sweltering August night, one of the hottest in a while, and Richie had kicked the sheets down to the foot of his bed, and, after a while, thrown the blanket off, too. The night was enough of a covering, descending onto him with a buzzing anticipation.

Richie wanted to sleep, and tried desperately, closing his eyes and curling up on one side and then rolling to the other, stretching out when his knees started to ache. He flipped his pillow over when it got too hot, and sunk into the chill of the other side. His hair was too hot on his head, long and messy and twisting out into curls, and he thought that maybe he should chop it all off, that maybe he would get up and do it right now.

He didn’t, and later sighed in relief. His hair was a jungle, thick and frequently disheveled and a danger to fingers, combs, or whatever else had the misfortune to touch it. It was also his pride and joy. Now as he tried to sleep, it stuck to his forehead, sweaty and clumping, and tickled the back of his neck.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, just what felt like hours of agonizing wakefulness thinking about his hair and the moon and the sweat and Eddie and Eddie and Eddie, but he woke up gasping after a dream he forgot in seconds, and it was light out.

And it was the day, the frapjous day, callooh, callay! The first thing he did was grab the red sharpie and make that thick, oh-so satisfying, final X on the calendar, directly over “EDDIE”.

The shower was one of the fastest he had ever taken, and was mostly just to wash away the sweat from last night and do something better with his hair. It was almost long enough for a little ponytail in the back, but not quite. He didn’t have any hair ties, anyways. He’d have to ask Beverly. For now, he settled for a slightly-less-full-of-twigs-than-usual bird’s nest. 

Clothes weren’t hard. Converse, jeans, a $5 “I just got served… at Angel’s Ice Cream Shop!” tee with a little picture of an anthropomorphized cone of ice cream, and a hawaiian shirt over top. The blue and white one, his best. He shoved his glasses up his nose— they were sturdier now, held together by a dollop of Bill’s crazy glue instead of masking tape— and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. 

Fuck it. Good enough. Go, go, go!

Richie didn’t stop for breakfast, just grabbed a banana off the hook and sprinted out the door. He ate it one-handed, using the other one to steer his bike towards Bill’s house. Eddie was getting home “Saturday morning”, an agonizingly unspecific time, and was going to drop all of his stuff off at home before meeting them at Bill’s. He said his Uncle was driving back with them all, as he had wanted to make sure everything was “ship-shape” before heading off to New York, where he apparently lived in the non-summertime. Eddie said his uncle wanted to meet them all, too, and Richie was more than a little excited to see this strange man that had done so much for his Eds while they’d been separated.

Mostly, though, he just wanted to see Eddie.

God, he wished he could draw like Bill. One night during a sleepover, after everyone else had gone to bed, Richie had woken to the skitter-scratch of a pencil on paper. He crawled up onto the arm of the big comfy chair in Bill’s basement, in which Bill was snugly nestled, and peered over his shoulder, whispering, “Whatchya drawing?”

Bill pulled away, but not before Richie could catch a glimpse of more than enough: a girl in profile, upturned nose, splash of dotted freckles across the cheeks, haze of blood-red floating around her head. “I-it came out wrong,” Bill muttered, slowly letting Richie see it. “It w-was supposed to be orange.”

“I think it looks swell, Billy boy,” Richie said. “She’d love it.”

Bill blushed and closed the sketchbook. “It’s not for h-her.”

Richie hadn’t understood what Bill had meant at the time, but later, taking his own pencil to the back of a receipt and scratching out hard, thick lines that looked nothing like the remembrance of Eddie’s face, or really any human face at all, he got it. It wasn’t for Beverly, it was for Bill. A little reminder, to keep with him, a little beautiful secret. Richie wasn’t good at drawing like Bill or building like Ben or tender with animals, tender with everything like Mike. Richie wasn’t half so careful as Stan or even a fraction as strong as Beverly. Sometimes Richie wasn’t sure what he was good at.

But now, biking down the street to Bill’s house, thinking of the lines of Eddie’s face and hoping that he was remembering them right after all these weeks, knowing that they wouldn’t just be lines and curves on a paper anymore but a real, live, squishable face in a matter of hours, he thought to himself that there was one thing that he felt good at. He was good at Eddie.

Mike was just arriving as Richie did, pedaling in from the other direction. They dismounted together, dropping their bikes next to the those of the others that had already gotten there, which Richie discerned to be all but Stan, from the pile of bikes all heaped atop each other. Stan was the only one of them who had a kick stand and actually used it. Richie thought it wasted valuable time.

“Are you excited to see him?” Mike’s smile was infectious, and Richie grinned toothily to match him.

“What, me, excited?” He fluttered his eyelashes, put on a demure Audrey Hepburn-style starlet voice. “Oh, my darling, that’s simply too inexpressive a word! I am feverish, I am trembling, I have lost all composure and stand here before you dripping with anticipation.”

Mike laughed. “You’re in a good mood.”

“It’s a good day. It’s a marvelous day!” Richie did a little twirl. “How could I not be in a good mood when today is the long-awaited day that my dashing paramour returns from his journey abroad?”

“Oh, right, you’re reading Wuthering Heights,” Mike said. “I almost forgot.”

“Come on,” Richie bounded up to the doorstep, dropping his Voice. “Let’s get this party started.”

The knock came at 12:30, rather pushing the bounds of “morning” in Richie’s point of view, but there could not have been a more anticipated and better welcomed sound. Everyone was lounging in the living room like they had been for the past few hours, all engaged in whatever activities would pass the time quickly but ultimately be easily discarded when Eddie arrived. Richie was getting soundly beaten by Ben in a game of Connect 4, and when the knock came he jumped so violently that he knocked the whole thing over. 

Richie scrambled to the door with Bill on his heels and the others just behind them. He grabbed the knob, pictured Eddie’s face, and wrenched the door open.

There was a tall man on the doorstep.

“You’re not Eddie,” Richie said dumbly, staring up at him. 

“No, I’m not,” the man said mildly, and stepped to the side. A car was parked on the side of the street, and a small boy was standing on the curb rummaging around for something in the back seat. “That’s Eddie. I’m his Uncle Wilbur.”

“Oh! You are?” It came out like a question. This wasn’t what Richie had expected from Eddie’s descriptions.

“I am.” Wilbur was tall and pale, with small wire-frame glasses perched atop his nose. He looked younger than he was, a boyish haircut not yet betraying any signs of gray, and he stood with a certain poise, one hand in the pocket of his slacks. All of this combined with the turtleneck he was wearing to make him look like a model from a fashion catalogue for Ivy League alumni. 

But Richie’s glance only stayed on him for a moment before turning to the real object of his attention. “It’s the one, the only, the incredible… EDDIE KASPBRAK!” Richie gave a whoop and ran to the sidewalk, barreling into Eddie just as Eddie turned, backpack in hand. The bag dropped to the ground and Eddie’s hands found their way to Richie’s midsection, squeezing tight.

“Oof, you got a powerful grip there, boy,” Richie said into the top of Eddie’s head, and then pulled away, hands still planted firmly on Eddie’s shoulders. “Jesus, I forgot what a little pipsqueak you were.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Eddie was smiling, breathless, his face glowing like a goddamn cherub, and he reached up, grabbed Richie’s cheeks, and pulled the taller boy down into a deep kiss.

It was warm and familiar and tasted like sleepless nights and felt like melting caramel and god damn, Richie had missed him.

They broke apart to a chorus of wolf-whistles and cheers from the others, who all subsequently swarmed Eddie, each hugging him in turn. Embarrassed, Richie stepped back and wiped his mouth as the others got in their “hi”s and “how are you”s and “oh my god I missed you so much”s. 

He glanced back at Uncle Wilbur, who was standing estranged from the group with an odd expression on his face. Richie stepped closed to him. “Sorry, I didn’t realize who you were at first. Eddie’s, uh, told me a lot about you.”

Wilbur coughed a little and gave a nervous smile. “All good things, I hope. I’ve heard a lot about you, too, Richie.”

Richie’s mind swirled with the plethora of jokes he could deal out in response, the innuendos and possible Voices, but there was something difficult about Uncle Wilbur, something delicate that made Richie instead say, “Thank you. You know, for everything you did for Eddie. It means a lot to have a grown-up on our side.”

Before Uncle Wilbur could respond, Eddie called Richie over, and Richie dashed to his side.

“Bill got us all tickets to Ghostbusters 2 tonight! Oh my god! You guys are the best!” Eddie grinned. “Seriously, you have no idea how much I missed you.”

“I have a little idea,” Richie said. 

After a little while, Eddie said his goodbyes to his uncle and all of the kids wished him a safe drive to New York, and after a few more awkward embraces and promises to call, they were left alone, the Losers Club complete once again. They filtered back into Bill’s living room and settled in on the couches, ready for Eddie to regale them all with the stories of his country misadventures.

Before Eddie could start, however, Richie cleared his throat. “Um, so, Eddie. We gonna talk about that?”

Eddie looked up at him. Richie was sprawled on the couch and Eddie sat on the floor, leaning against his legs. “Talk about what?”

“Oh, nothing, just that your uncle is a huge queer.”

“What?” Eddie sat up straight. “No, he’s not!”

“Sorry to break it to you, buddy, but yes he is,” Richie laughed. “He’s totally gay. Did you not know?”

“He isn’t, that’s impossible, he would have told me!” Eddie’s eyes were wide. “No. You can’t be serious.”

“Serious as a heart attack, the guy is absolutely gay. If he didn’t say it it’s probably just ‘cause of your mom.”

Eddie sat in stunned silence for a long moment. The others all watched him as the revelation unfolded behind his eyes. “Oh… _oh._ Holy shit, you’re right, aren’t you? Oh my god.” He buried his face in his hands. “I’m such an idiot! it all makes sense! Dammit, I wish I’d figured it out, we could’ve talked about it!”

They all laughed. “You can still call him,” Richie said. “Anyways, onwards with your tale, I just wanted to bring that little tidbit of information to your attention in case you were being unperceptive as usual.”

“Y-yeah,” Bill said. “Tell us everything.”

“Alright, okay, I’m going.” Eddie snuggled back down, his back coming to rest on Richie’s leg— a gentle reminder that he was here and they were together and Richie could throw out his calendar, now, because the only important event was “EDDIE”, and Eddie was now, Eddie was all the time, Eddie was never leaving again.


	33. Poem

They had one week of summer before school, and they loaded it with as much classic Losers activities as they could: along with Ghostbusters 2, they saw two other movies at the Aladdin, and they had a movie night sleepover at Bill’s house to revisit the old standards (Raiders of the Lost Ark, Gremlins, Jaws); they went down to the Barrens and played a rousing game of wiffle ball, and Ben spearheaded the construction of a dam in a narrower section of the stream, which was so well designed that they had to take it down that evening after an officer came by with complaints. 

They played a rousing game of strip poker— turns out Ben has a better poker face than one would imagine, and Richie’s is just as bad as expected— down to their underwear, and then jumped into the old quarry to swim on one of the last hot days of summer. They played truth or dare and Eddie picked truth every time and Richie unfailingly picked dare, and when Richie, with a snicker, asked Bev what he thought to be a sly question about her more intimate hygiene processes, she casually enlightened all the boys about the wonders of menstruation.

And so it came that on September 3rd the whole Losers Club parked their bikes outside of McCallum’s, pockets full of cash for buying new school supplies. School was starting in two days, and since Labor Day was tomorrow and the parade would be shutting down all of main street, this was their last chance to stock up on new materials.

The bell jingled as the group filtered in, and the old man behind the counter looked up to watch them come in. When his gaze alighted on Richie, he shook his head.

“No. That one—” The old man raised a finger and pointed to Richie. The others all turned to look. “Out. He’s banned.”

“Aw, shit, I forgot about that,” Richie muttered.

“What the hell did you do?” Stan whirled on him.

“Nothing! I just— just made a joke, is all— Mr. McCallum, please, I said I was sorry about that—“

“He came in about a month ago, looking to buy some art supplies. Got some watercolors, paintbrushes, stuff like that, heaped it all up on the counter, but when I tallied it up he said he pulled four dollars outta his pocket and tried to take the lot for that. Told him that was twenty bucks off the mark, and the kid started trying to haggle with me. I run a business here, not a fruit stand. Finally, I told him to get the hell out if he couldn’t pay, he was holding the line up, and he told me to lighten up. I said I was fine, thank you very much, and he said that maybe I should go home and “do some good cheering up” with my wife.”

They all groaned. Bill spread his hands placatingly. “M-maybe he could just t-tell you were having a hard day and wanted to h-h-help.”

“My wife has been dead for twenty three years.”

“O-Oh.”

Richie huffed. “How was I supposed to know that?”

“Out.” Mr. McCallum pointed to the door. “Your friends can stay, but you stay out. I’ve been running this shop for four decades and I’ve done just fine without disrespectful punks like you in my place of business.”

Richie pulled the cash out of his pocket and gave it to Eddie. “Buy my stuff for me. Whatever I need. Uh, notebooks, erasers, paperclips… I don’t remember everything, but, you know, the important stuff like that.”

“And maybe some pencils?”

“Oh, yeah, that would help.” Richie glanced at Mr. McCallum. “I’ll wait outside.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Ben volunteered. “I got everything I need a month ago. I was, uh, excited.” He blushed.

“Don’t worry, Ben, we all already know you get off on color-coded binders.” Richie snorted. “Nerd.”

“Out!” Mr. McCallum barked.

The two of them sat down on the curb outside, Richie sprawling his legs out, untied Converse laces flopping onto the road, and Ben sitting like he always did, curled up, elbows on his knees and chin propped thoughtfully in his hands.

“That fossil obviously has never met a punk in his life,” Richie grumbled. “I’m clearly a class clown. There’s a distinct difference.”

Ben didn’t reply. He was staring into the distance with a strange expression on his face, like he was remembering something beautiful.

“Hey.” Richie snapped his fingers in front of Ben’s face and Ben jerked back, snapping out of it. Richie frowned, scrutinizing him. “What are you thinking about?”

Ben’s cheeks grew steadily pinker. “Nothing.”

“Oh, really? Is Nothing your girlfriend’s name now?”

Ben was a steady hue of maroon now, but he didn’t say a word.

Richie cocked an eyebrow. “Wait, really? You have a girl?”

“No,” Ben said, so quiet it was barely audible.

“You have a boy?” 

Ben shook his head, and buried his face in his hands. “It’s embarrassing,” he whispered.

“Oh, come on. You’ve heard the gory details of my romantic exploits, it can’t be that bad.”

“I hhrot hh prrm.” Ben’s words were smothered by his palms.

Richie leaned in. “Pipe up, loverboy, I can’t tell a thing you’re saying.”

“I wrote a poem,” Ben managed. 

Richie couldn’t help but laugh, although he stifled it as best he could. “You— what? A poem? For who?”

“It’s “for whom”,” Ben muttered, lifting his head up. He was soft and nervous and absolutely scarlet. But his eyes betrayed him— a quick dart behind them, to the door of the shop. He didn’t mean to do it, and his eyes snapped back to Richie right after, but it was enough.

“Aw, gee!” Richie clapped his hands. “Gosh golly! Good ol’ Haystack is finally making a move! Ding ding ding!”

“Beep-beep, Richie!” Ben hissed, and Richie dutifully quieted. Ben stole another glance back at the door. “I’m not signing it. She doesn’t know. You can’t tell her, please.”

“Why does everybody always tell me their secrets? Don’t you know I’m the biggest blabbermouth in town?”

“Please,” Ben pleaded. “You can’t let her find out.”

“Alright, alright, but what’s the point of a poem if she won’t know who wrote it?”

“I don’t know.” Ben kneaded his fingers nervously. “Maybe just to make her happy. Maybe she’ll think it’s nice, and it doesn’t matter who she’ll think wrote it, because it’s sweet words either way. And she’ll know someone cares.”

“Damn it, you are so infuriatingly sweet, Benny.” Richie pinched one of Ben’s cheeks. “But why not just tell her? What if she likes you, too?”

“She doesn’t,” Ben said simply. “She likes Bill.”

Richie chewed on the inside of his lip, trying to figure out the best response, but Ben continued before he could say anything.

“See? You know it. I know it. We all know it. It’s okay, I understand. I’d probably like Bill too, if I were her. Anyways, I’m her friend, and I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable around me because she knows I like her and she doesn’t like me back. A nice poem is enough. Maybe it’ll made a hard day a little better.” Ben shrugged. “That would be enough.”

Richie let out a long exhale. “Depending on the day, that might be more than enough. That might be a whole lot.” He looked over at Ben. “Jokes aside, you really are sweet, Ben. Don’t count yourself out; any girl would be lucky to have you.”

Ben grinned, an adorable grin that made Richie wanna squish his cheeks and kiss him on the forehead. So that’s what Richie did, because Richie pretty much just did whatever he wanted. Ben pulled away, laughing, just as the door behind them jingled and the others came out. 

Eddie dumped a plastic bag on Richie’s lap. Richie pulled it open and sticked a hand inside, rummaging through the objects. “What’s this?” He pulled out a sheet of stickers.

“E.T. scratch-n-sniffs. I know you like to decorate your notebooks and binders and stuff.” Eddie reached a hand down and pulled Richie up.

“You know me so well, baby.” Richie popped to his feet and planted a kiss on Eddie’s cheek. 

“Hey, I just realized something weird,” Stan said. “We’re going into high school.”

“You just realized that now?” Richie said.

“No, like, think about it. We’re going into **high school**.”

They all thought about it for a good long minute. Richie broke first. “Ew! High school! What? You’re right, that’s fake.”

They all agreed that it was too weird to actually think about it as high school, so they collectively agreed to refer to themselves as “9th graders”, as that felt slightly less horrible and uncanny than “freshmen”. All except for Mike, of course, who maintained (with a smug smile) that grades didn’t exist when you’re homeschooled and it was “just another year” for him, and that he couldn’t wait to spend every day in his pajamas. The rest of them also agreed that Mike sucked, and that he was super lucky that he was homeschooled and it was unfair and it would be best for everybody if he would just go fuck himself.

They rode back to Bill’s house, backpacks significantly heavier, and planned their coordinated outfits for Labor Day tomorrow. Beverly suggested that they all wear white, but Richie argued that he didn’t have any white clothes without grass stains or spills on them, so they settled on red, white, and/or blue, in honor of America, and because Beverly said she already had a nice white dress picked out and anyone who tried to stop her wearing it wouldn’t live to regret it. Richie noticed the way that Ben’s eyes stayed on her even when she wasn’t talking, and the way he sided with her in debates that didn’t affect him in the slightest. Richie wondered if Bev knew. Richie wondered if it mattered. Richie wondered why he always got saddled with everyone’s secrets. He guessed that it was just what happened when you’re an awesome friend that never does anything wrong and is always there for people and is basically the best.

Or something like that.


	34. High School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all!!! so as you may have noticed I have posted one chapter every day for the past 34 days. that has not been easy but it's been really fun to do because i love all of you and the amazing feedback you give me and i love this story and these characters so so much <3 but this upcoming week leading up to halloween is going to be really hectic and i have a lot of plans.  
> i still intend on posting one chapter per day, but they might be shorter than usual after this. i got this idea, though, that if any of you wanted you could comment with some prompts. they could be dialogue snippets, song lyrics, one-word prompts, anything you think of! and i could write a little chapter of fluff in the timeline for it this week. don't feel any obligation to think of anything, but i just thought i'd put that out there in case y'all have ideas, since it might make writing this week a little easier!  
> thank you again for all of your support and love,  
> \- zoe

The first day of high school was… well, it was everything that Richie expected but better, and also a whole lot worse.

They stayed together for assembly, pushing through the crowd of students as they entered the gymnasium and taking their places at the back of the bleachers. Unfortunately, Derry’s small-town public school combined middle and high schools into one building, so they didn’t exactly have an unfamiliar new space, or the anonymity that comes with it. Two rows down and to the far left on the bleachers sat the Bowers gang, Henry himself looking determinedly unhappy. He had been held back for the past two grades, so even though he was nearing on sixteen, he resided in the same classes as the Losers Club, much to their dismay. 

They were all split up after assembly and shuffled off down the halls to their correct classrooms. Stan was with Richie for first period Algebra, which Richie figured was a very good thing, since he could never get his math homework done without help, and Stan was the best at anything numbers-related. It wasn’t that Richie couldn’t understand it— he picked up the concepts easily enough in class— it was just that he could not, for the life of him, get himself to focus on it. The numbers started to blur together and his head ached or at least he would say it did, and then a thought would pop into his head: something he’d forgotten to do, a nice memory, a dream fragment, a snippet of song, and then he would forget all about his calculations. But no, he decided, not this year. This year a lot of things were gonna be different.

His English teacher was named Ms. Ashby, and he thought that if he’d been straight she probably would have been the love of his life. She was young and had beautiful eyes and a kind smile, but, more than that, she _loved Shakespeare_. She loved Shakespeare like Richie loved Shakespeare. Hell, he thought that she maybe loved Shakespeare like he loved Eddie. And she knew stories, so many stories, every time he made a reference to a book or did an obscure movie Voice, she knew exactly what he was talking about and, more often than not, she actually laughed. Nobody ever laughed at Richie’s jokes except his friends in the Losers Club, and even then, it was more a stray piteous chuckle or embarrassed giggle. And when, in passing, she mentioned Wuthering Heights? Richie knew it was going to be his favorite class. He only wished Eddie was there, but Eddie was halls away in Biology, his absolute worst subject. Eddie couldn’t touch a dead animal for the life of him, and had been dreading the class ever since he heard last year that they were going to be doing dissections.

They all had lunch together, as they always did in years past, except now there were a few more at the table, and they were all laughing a little harder for it, and sometimes Eddie foot would nudge Richie’s under the table and they would look up and make eye contact and hold a secret smile in the air between them.

Everything was just peachy, and Richie was starting to think that high school wasn’t so bad after all, which is about when he should have realized that something would have to happen. They were never allowed to just have a good time of it. And of course, of course, it started with P.E.. 

“Fucking dodgeball?” Richie spat, one of the last left in the locker room. “First day back to school, and they’re “letting us have some fun” with fucking _dodgeball_? Please enlighten me, I’m truly asking, has there ever been a fun game of dodgeball anywhere in the world ever?”

“I know, Richie, I know,” Eddie said. “I’m not arguing! I’m just saying we’ve just got to get through this and then we can go home, alright? This is our last class. The day’s gone so well. Please, let’s just make it through this.”

Richie crossed his arms petulantly. “Fine. But I’m going to hate every second of it, and complain the entire time.” 

It turned out that if someone, somewhere, ever once enjoyed a game of dodgeball, it sure wasn’t Richie, here, now. Or Eddie. Or Ben, who met them out in the gym. 

Only some sort of malicious, evil prick would enjoy a barbaric game like dodgeball, Richie speculated as the gym teacher went over the rules again for anyone who had been born in the wrong century and somehow didn’t know by now. Only some sort of cruel, soulless animal, Richie continued. Only some sort of…

“Oh, god fucking dammit, are you seriously kidding me right now?” Richie gaped at Henry Bowers, who was grinning at him from across the court.

“Language!” Eddie hissed, and elbowed him in the ribs, eyes darting over to the teacher, who luckily hadn’t heard. 

“Eddie, before we die, I just want to say—“

“Stop it, nobody’s dying.”

“—I want to be buried, open casket funeral, and I want to be wearing my Ghostbusters hat—“

“We are not gonna die, you’re going to be fine.”

“—And I want it to be at midnight and halfway through start playing “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” on my boombox—“

“Jesus Christ, you are so dramatic—“

“—And I want you to have my bicycle, my most prized possession, and give Bill my old stuffed bear, and—“

The gym teacher blew the whistle, and the three losers were wholly unprepared.

Ben was down first. His entire strategy consisted of crouching in the back corner and hoping that nobody would see him— something that Richie and Eddie tried to emulate until Ben got slammed in the shins and they realized it only made them sitting ducks. Richie and Eddie together made a pretty good tag team, as Eddie was very good at dodging and Richie was actually fairly decent at throwing, but they weren’t anywhere near a match for the larger kids on the other team, and especially not for Henry Bowers, who seemed to have made it his personal mission to specifically hit the two of them.

“Why is he so tall?” Eddie huffed, skittering out of the way of another low ball. “He has no business being that tall.”

“Hey, Bowers, you’re too tall!” Richie shouted across the line. “It makes you look like a giraffe, and not in a hot way!”

“Shut up, stop taunting him!” Eddie said. “And in what way could that possibly be hot?”

Richie grabbed a ball and hurled it across at Henry. Unfortunately he could throw, sure, but his aim was less than spectacular, and it went wide, hitting the back wall. Henry ran to pick it up, and the gleam in his eyes made Richie and Eddie both take an involuntarily step backwards. 

“Dodge!” Was all Richie had time to gasp before the ball was hurtling at high-speeds towards them. He jumped out of the way before it could hit him in the chest, but as he twisted away he heard a loud “thump” and a cry of pain and the gym let out a collective gasp.

The whistle was loud and sharp and the room quieted into a hushed murmur. Richie turned to see Eddie sitting on the floor, holding his face in his eyes.

“Mrm my grrd.” Eddie’s hands drew down a little, revealing wide eyes and a significantly paled face, but he was still clutching his nose. “He brrk my frrce.”

The teacher was by his side in an instant, forcing Eddie’s hands down to reveal a blood-soaked nose, red streaking down his lips and dripping from his chin. “He broke my face!” Eddie repeated, his voice growing steadily higher. “Oh my god! My face is broken!”

The gym teacher was saying something in his best attempt at a comforting tone about how no, Eddie’s face wasn’t broken, he was alright, where did he keep his inhaler, come on, let’s go to the nurse and get him taken care of. Richie wasn’t listening. Richie was staring at Henry Bowers, and Henry Bowers was smirking. He was fucking smirking.

The teacher helped Eddie out of the room, told everyone to stay put. Richie wanted to punch Henry in the face.

And so, like on so many occasions, Richie decided his first instinct was probably right, and punching Henry in the face was probably a good idea, and there wasn’t really any point in thinking it through because thinking things through is for suckers and Eddie’s face was broken and Henry was _smirking_.

Unfortunately, Henry was, as Eddie had so astutely observed earlier, far too tall for his own good. Or maybe, in this case, it was good for him, because when Richie came striding across the court to him and swung as hard as he could up at Henry’s face, the blow hit him squarely in the sternum. Which was, of course, unpleasant, but wasn’t half the knockout blow Richie had planned for, and only stunned Henry for a few seconds. After those few moments of shock for both parties, for Henry because Trashmouth Tozier just had the audacity to hit Henry Bowers, and Richie because _Trashmouth Tozier just had the audacity to hit Henry Bowers_ , Henry struck back. 

Henry grabbed Richie by the shirt, fist twisting in the cloth, and punched him once across the face. Once was enough for Richie’s already abused glasses, and they snapped clean in half and tumbled to the ground. The other students followed the general rules of bystander conduct and kept a respectful circle around the two as Henry grabbed a sagging Richie with both hands now and pulled him close. 

“I know what you are,” Henry sneered into Richie’s ear. Without his glasses, Richie could only see a flesh-colored blur, but he could hear Henry loud and clear. Henry was still smirking. “Everybody does. This is my school, my fucking town, and you and your little fairy boyfriend are dead.”

Richie’s head was spinning, and he could feel something wet on his cheek and didn’t know if it was tears or blood, hopefully not tears, that wouldn’t be a good way to start the school year, but it was probably too late for good impressions anyways— but he forced himself to speak. He could not let Bowers have the last word, not this time. “Oh, suck my gigantic dick, Bowers, you homophobic douchebag.”

Henry threw Richie away from him to the floor with a disgusted noise, but there from the ground, head aching and world spinning, Richie could see just well enough to know that Henry sure wasn’t smirking anymore. And that was enough.

When the teacher came back and demanded to know what happened, everyone clammed up. Richie told the teacher that he’d tripped on the dodgeball. “I’m so clumsy, honestly, can’t keep my feet under me, like this one time, I was biking down the street—“ The teacher waved him off. He was Richie’s teacher last year, too, and knew better than to let Richie get going on a story. Ben volunteered to take Richie to the infirmary and held his hand the whole way there. They didn’t talk at all; Richie had already said all he’d needed to say.

And so when the end of school bell rang, Richie and Eddie met up with the rest of the Losers Club, each sporting a bloody nose. They told the story in a hurried, excited way, each cutting over the other for the first part, and Richie only slightly exaggerating the second, with Ben there to reign him in when he got a little too excited and started to fudge the details. They were all aghast at Henry’s villainy and applauded Richie’s heroism, and Stan had some tape in his backpack because of course he did, and he taped up Richie’s glasses as best he could. The frames sat a little crookedly on his nose, but Richie didn’t mind terribly. They matched his smile.

“So,” Richie said. They were all walking home together, to finish their homework before meeting Mike at the Barrens later that evening. “High school.”

“H-high school,” Bill agreed.

“What a dump,” Beverly said.

“Absolute waste of space,” Stan jumped in.

“Lamest place ever,” Eddie said.

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “It didn’t seem awfully different from middle school, if you ask me.”

Richie laughed, rubbed his aching nose. “Exactly.”


	35. Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is based on a prompt left yesterday:  
> "aaaa: if you need more ideas for fluff chapters or something, you should have richie and eddie dance together!! like they're listening to music or something and richie impulsively is like "hEY lets dance" idk"  
> hope you enjoy!!
> 
> ~feel free to send in prompts for this week~

It was a Thursday after school and they were supposed to be studying. Richie laid back on his bed, his eyes tracing patterns in the water stains on his ceiling.

“Okay, and so the absolute value of -14 is what?” Eddie was at Richie’s desk, where he had pushed away piles of clutter to make room for their Algebra homework. When Richie didn’t reply, Eddie spun in Richie’s swivel chair to look at him. “Seriously. This is not hard. We just went over this.”

“Did you know that stamps are 1/10 of a calorie?” Richie yawned. One of the ceiling splotches looked an awful lot like a rabbit. He cocked his head to look at it. “So like, if you lick a stamp, you’re eating 1/10 of a calorie.”

“One, how do you know that; two, don’t lick stamps; three, can’t you try to focus on your homework for one second, Richie? We’re almost done! I’m not doing all of this for you.”

“Then don’t,” Richie said. “I’ll get to it later.” 

“No, you won’t,” Eddie grumbled. “We both know you won’t. Come on, what’s the absolute value of -14?”

“Hey, let’s listen to music.” Richie sat up, suddenly reenergized, and reached under his bed to grab his boombox. “What do you wanna listen to?”

“Um, nothing? I’m trying to work? After this, we still got history, you know she’s gonna pull a pop quiz soon, you’ve gotta know this stuff.”

“I do know it.” Richie waved him off. He grabbed a shoebox full of cassettes and started rifling through them. “Anyways, out in the real world, a bunch of dates and names and stuff don’t matter. You know what matters? Stories. People. Feelings. Let’s have a feeling.”

“I’m having lots of feelings, and you’re not gonna like any of them.” 

“Let’s having a feeling _together_ ,” Richie said, and popped a cassette into the boombox. “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” immediately started blasting at top volume— Richie turned it down quickly. “Good thing we’re home alone,” he laughed. 

“Really? This is what we’re doing now?”

“No, sorry, wrong song.” Richie fiddled with the controls, fast forwarding through a few different upbeat Cyndi Lauper songs until he got to the one he wanted. “Aha. This is what we’re doing now.” 

“Time After Time,” Eddie said, looking at the boombox, then looking at Richie. “This is a nice song. Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not ruining anything,” Richie said, and rose to his feet. He held a hand out to Eddie. “Let’s dance.”

Eddie blinked. “What? No. Let’s… let’s not do that. Let’s homework.”

“You said it yourself, this is a nice song.” It was. The swooning melody filled Richie’s room, and Richie swayed with it, holding his hand out insistently. “Have a moment with me.”

“Oh, god.” Eddie groaned, and put his pencil down. “You’re serious. Richie, come on, you know I don’t—“

Richie darted forwards and grabbed Eddie by the hand, pulled him to his feet. “You can do anything you damn well please, darling.” 

“What is that Voice even supposed to be? Oh my god.” 

But Richie was guiding Eddie’s hands up around his neck, and Richie’s fingers were straying down towards Eddie’s waist, and then they were rocking gently, side to side, a raft on the water, a pendulum in the air.

“You are so ridiculous,” Eddie whispered. He leaned in, rested his head against Richie’s chest, swayed there with his fingers laced behind the taller boy’s neck. “You know we’re thirteen, right?”

“Yeah. And?” Richie murmured into the top of Eddie’s head. Eddie’s hair smelled like roses. It was from his shampoo; Richie knew because of the time he’d slept over at Eddie’s after falling in the stream at the Barrens and had taken a shower and woke up smelling Eddie on his pillow the next morning, roses in his curls, and ever since then he made up excuses to shower when he was at the Kaspbrak place. 

“We’re supposed to be doing dumb things. Seeing movies, getting in fights, making out behind the dumpster.”

“We do all of that. Also, I just punched Henry Bowers for you. You’re saying I should be more dumb?”

“No! God, no. No, you’re dumb enough. I just mean… with me. You act like we’re old and married, or like we’re having some wild love affair in France or something, like we’re— Romeo and Juliet, or something.”

“With less dying, through, right?”

“I just mean…” Eddie pulled away, looked up at Richie. That was his mistake. Their eyes caught together, magnets snapping into place, and the rest of Eddie’s sentence didn’t come.

“You just mean…?” Richie’s mouth twitched up into a smile, his eyebrow arched. He didn’t look away from Eddie’s eyes, those beautiful wide eyes, dark like the heart of a tree.

“Nevermind,” Eddie whispered. “Kiss me.”

Richie did. When they broke apart, Cyndi was saying “go slow”, and the second hand was unwinding. 

“I had to live here without you for almost two months, Eds,” Richie said. “What’s it they say? You don’t know what you got ’till it’s gone?”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie murmured. 

“I want feelings with you,” Richie continued. “And moments. And songs. Don’t you feel it, like none of it matters? Like school doesn’t matter, dreams don’t matter, this song is four minutes long but it feels like forever, and I think that means that this matters so much more than any of that.”

“Sometimes you don’t make any sense.”

“All I’m saying is, why waste our lives on stuff we don’t care about if we could feel like this all the time?”

“I think the reason this feels so special is because it’s not all the time,” Eddie said. “But I know what you mean. Hey, this isn’t just a ruse to get out of doing your homework, right?”

Richie grinned. “The absolute value of -14 is 14, Rome fell in 476 A.D., the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, Romeo and Juliet were thirteen and dumb, and your hair smells like roses. Now can you just shut up and finish this song with me?”

Eddie just laughed, and let his head come to rest on Richie’s chest again. “Showoff.” 

“Stick in the mud.”

“Smartass.”

“Square.”

“Hopeless romantic.”

“Cutie.” Richie kissed the top of Eddie’s head, and Time After Time played out, and they both smelled like roses.


	36. Cranberry Juice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt by @Totodilebites: "And I would love to have a chapter where they go out on a date night, and have one of them be really sweet and romantic, and the other all blushy and embarrassed because they’re being doted on ( Richie being the flustered cute one would be so good!) A little basic but I need that fluff XD"
> 
> hope this is flustered enough!! hahah thank you for the prompt :D

Friday night was Losers Club sleepover time, and Saturday and Sunday afternoons were claimed by the Barrens, the Aladdin, and biking around town. But Saturday night had been established as Richie and Eddie’s standing date night, and more often than not Richie took Eddie out someplace of his choosing: the roller rink, the park, biking around after dark. Last week had been the classic dinner-and-a-movie; Richie had taken them to a mostly empty diner and they had shared a chocolate milkshake in the back booth. Richie spooned off the extra whipped cream and Eddie ate the cherry, and they’d bumped noses when leaning in for sips from separate straws.

But this week Eddie informed Richie that this time, Eddie was going to orchestrate the date night, and in the week leading up to the date night he was frustratingly coy about his plans. All he told Richie, when they saw each other Saturday morning, was to “wear something nice”, and meet in Eddie’s backyard at 6:30.

Richie spent the afternoon agonizing over what constituted “something nice”. He didn’t do “nice”. He tried on shirts, stared at himself in the mirror, and took them back off again. He eventually settled on what he considered one of his classier button-ups, in that it wasn’t Hawaiian print and didn’t have a large stain on it, and a pair of unripped jeans. He tried his best to tame his hair, sticking his head under the faucet and brushing it while wet, hoping it would stay down, but it just ended up looking clumpy and vaguely damp. 

Richie biked up to Eddie’s house feeling unusually anxious. He was used, by now, to Eddie, and to being with Eddie, but Eddie didn’t usually take the lead in this way. Richie hoped he wouldn’t mess it up, whatever Eddie’s plan was. 

When he dismounted and walked his bike around to Eddie’s backyard, he was not prepared for what he found there.

Eddie was sitting on a plaid picnic blanket laid out across the grass. There was an extension cord snaking from inside the back door, which was cracked open, and winding through the grass and over to the spattering of trees in the back of Eddie’s yard. Plugged into it was a row of Eddie’s christmas lights, which he had strung from tree to tree. They glowed red and blue and gold, and illuminated the display that Eddie had created on the picnic blanket.

Eddie was kneeling in one corner of the blanket, wearing a darling little pink polo. Spread out before him was spread a large array of food: a platter of tea sandwiches, each cut into perfect squares and filled with zucchini and cream cheese; a large bunches of grapes still on the stem; a tupperware full of baby carrots; an entire baguette and a tub of butter with a delicate butter knife laid beside it; a plate of brownies that looked suspiciously homemade; and, inside a small basket, a bottle of what, at first glance, looked like red wine.

“Oh my god,” Richie said.

“Hi,” Eddie beamed.

“Oh my god, Eds!”

“Take your shoes off.” Eddie patted the open spot on the picnic blanket. “Sit down.”

“You did all this?” Richie kicked his sneakers and socks off and left them in the grass next to his bike, padded over to the blanket and and awkwardly lowered himself down to sitting cross-legged, careful not to upset any of the food that Eddie had so artfully arranged. 

Eddie nodded cheerfully. “I baked the brownies myself, and I cut the little sandwiches.”

“Of course you did,” Richie mumbled, but he found his cheeks heating. Damn it. He was supposed to be the one that made Eddie blush, not the other way around. “Is that fucking wine?”

“God, no!” Eddie put a hand over his heart, as if scandalized. “It’s sparkling cranberry juice. I brought out glasses, too, but only plastic ones, ‘cause Mom doesn’t want us breaking any glass.”

Richie glanced back over his shoulder at the house. “Wait, your mom knows about all of this? She’s, like, okay with this?”

“She has to be,” Eddie said with a shrug. “We’ve come to… well, not an agreement, but an understanding, I guess. I do all my schoolwork and stay safe and keep taking my medicine even though we both know it’s bullshit, and she lets me hang out with everyone and be with you pretty much whenever I want.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously.” Eddie nodded solemnly. “Come on, let’s eat, you adorable, scruffy child.”

Richie laughed, grabbing a baby carrot and popping it whole into his mouth. “‘M not scrrffy,” he said through his mouthful.

“This is you “dressing up”?” Eddie laughed. “You wore those jeans yesterday.”

“No I didn’t, that was the other pair that looks just like these,” Richie said. “Anyways, you bought those shorts last week at the thrift store. Am I just a used-shorts kind of guy to you?”

“You’re a work of art,” Eddie said, his voice unexpectedly gentle, and he reached over and took Richie’s hand in his own soft, small one.

Richie blinked, surprised, and flushed, pulling away. “S-stop it,” he managed. “You’re not allowed to do that.”

“Do what?” Eddie fluttered his eyelashes.

“You know what you’re doing! Be cute, be— flirty! Since when are you flirty? That’s my job!”

“You’re pink,” Eddie giggled. 

Richie stuffed a sandwich in his mouth to avoid replying to that observation.

“You don’t always get to be the fun, spontaneous one, you know.” Eddie arched an eyebrow.

Richie swallowed, and before he could speak, Eddie leaned in and kissed him fully on the mouth. It lasted a warm, tenuous moment that was probably longer than it should have been. Richie pulled away first. “What do you think you’re doing? Your mom’s right inside!”

Eddie shrugged. “Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.”

Richie cocked his head. “What is that? Is that Shakespeare?”

“It’s from Romeo and Juliet, dummy. You should know.” Eddie stuck his tongue out at Richie. “Mercutio.”

“Oh, right. He’s hot. I love him.”

“How is he hot? They literally never say what he looks like.”

“It’s in the personality, baby,” Richie said. “And also the fact that he’s obviously gay.”

“Well, I mean, obviously.”

They shared a smile. Eddie reached for the cranberry juice and brought it into his lap, tried to screw off the cap. He tried several times and with more and more concentrated effort to unscrew it before giving up, releasing the bottle into his lap. “Why is this thing so tight?” He panted.

Richie opened his mouth, thought better of it, closed it again. “Not gonna say it.” He reached out a hand. “Come on, give it here.”

Eddie obliged, and Richie tried his hand at unscrewing the cap. He tried one way and then the next, wondering is they were just trying the wrong way. It took almost a minute for them to realize that it wasn’t a twist-off.

“Goddamn classy cranberry juice!” Richie swore, staring at it. “It’s got a fuckin’ bottle cap!”

“Well, how are we gonna get it off?”

“Just go inside and get a bottle opener,” Richie said, waving the bottle in gesture towards the house.

“I don’t think we have one,” Eddie said. “I’ve never seen my mom drink. And I don’t think it would go very well if I went and asked her, “oh, hey, can I have a bottle opener for my date, but only for the cranberry juice, we’re totally not sneaking beer or anything like that”.”

“Shit.” Richie stared at the bottle in his hand. “Well, we’ve just gotta bang it against something, then.” He stood and marched over to the nearest tree, grass squishing softly beneath his bare feet. He readied himself, judged the angle, and banged the top of the bottle hard against the bark.

It took off a large chip of the bark and a bit of the tree under it, but the cap stayed tightly wedged.

Eddie padded over to join him. “Let me try.” He tried a different angle, hitting it downwards against the tree. The bubbles inside the bottle grew slightly larger, and it stayed tightly sealed. 

Richie tried dragging it down the tree, and Eddie suggested biting the metal off— he made Richie try it, of course, there was no way he was putting that in his mouth now that it had been in contact with the tree. It was a marvel they didn’t break the bottle itself, but all they managed to do was give it a sound shaking, enough that when they did get it open it was worse than if they hadn’t.

Richie finally remembered he had a swiss army knife in his pocket: his fathers, the one he’d retrieved from the asphalt after his confrontation with Henry back in June. He flipped it out and slowly, bit by bit, peeled back the metal ridges from the edge of the glass. As soon as the suction was released, the cap flipped off, shot out by the pressure of the built up carbonation. The juice sprayed out onto Eddie’s nice pink polo, coating his neck and chin in the sticky liquid, and dribbled all down Richie’s hands and arms, dripping onto his feet and the grass beneath them.

“Shit!” Richie said, holding it away from them at an arm’s distance, but the damage was done. Less than half of the juice was left in the bottle and still drinkable, and all of the rest of it was coating the two of them in a pink film.

“Ew, ew, ew, get it off!” Eddie shrieked. “It’s all over me, this is disgusting, some of it got in my mouth, Richie!”

“I don’t think it getting in your mouth is the problem.” Richie stared at Eddie, his forearms dripping with the stuff. “That’s the only place it went that it was actually supposed to.”

“I’ve got to go take a shower, **right now** ,” Eddie moaned, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could make the juice vanish from his skin if he couldn’t see it. “It’s on me, it’s on me.”

“Okay, okay, come on,” Richie said, setting the bottle down in the grass. He took Eddie hand in sticky hand and leading him across the backyard to the side of the house. “You can’t go inside, you’ll get everything gross. Let’s hose off out here, okay? You’re alright.” He maintained a constant soothing monologue as he found the hose, cranked it on, and directed the spray of water first at his own arms to test the pressure, and then at Eddie’s chest, hands, and neck. “Everything’s good, it’s all fine, it’s coming off you now. Look, open your eyes. It’s totally gone.”

Eddie cracked open one eye, stole a glance down to his shirt, and opened the other. “Is it really?” He whispered.

“All gone,” Richie promised, and turned the hose off. They stood there both dripping, shirts clinging to their skin and chilling them in the last breezes of an early September summer, but a strange smile slowly began to stretch across Eddie’s face.

Richie frowned back at him. “What? What’s that face? Are you okay?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“You,” Eddie repeated. “You’re so… gallant. You’re like my Prince Charming, riding in to the rescue. Look, you’re blushing again! I keep doing it! Is it remote control operated? Is there a button I’m accidentally pressing?” Eddie reached out and poked Richie in the stomach. “Beep beep, Richie,” he laughed, poking him again.

Richie swatted him away, giggling. “Stop it! Stop it, you know I’m ticklish!”

Eddie rushed Richie, catching him off guard and tackling him fully off his feet. They crashed into the grass, rolling around for a moment before Richie could kick Eddie off of him. They sat back, panting, both flushed and winded, in the grass.

“So much for my nice picnic,” Eddie laughed. 

“What did you think would happen?”

“I imagined a lot of things, but somehow not this.” Eddie’s smile softened. “This is better. This is the best.”

“This is the best,” Richie agreed.


	37. Hey, Batter Batter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Alexanderfan: "Could you write a chapter where the Losers play/do something and Richie gets hurt in some way, and Eddie gets overprotective?"
> 
> i hope you like this!! again, thank you to everyone for the prompts! i currently have 3 more on deck; it's been really fun writing these. :)

“Hey, batter batter batter, swing, batter!” Richie called from third base. He shifted on his feet in anticipation, watching Bill’s wind up. 

Richie had pitched for nearly an hour, as he was the best one of all of them, but they finally had to pry the ball out of his hand and make him let someone else have a go, so now he was stuck in on third base, and he didn’t even have a glove. They only had two gloves between them, so they gave one to the catcher and one migrated across the bases. It was currently on the hand of Mike, who was straddled between first and second base. They really didn’t have enough people for a true game of wiffle ball, but they really didn’t care enough to enlist any of the neighborhood kids to play with them.

“Shut up, Richie, I’m trying to concentrate,” Stan said, his face screwed up, hands curled tight around the bat.

“That’s the point, baby,” Richie grinned. “Hey, batter batter…”

Bill pitched. Stan whacked the ball as hard as he could, and it flew right down the center towards second base. Mike, who had been edging closer to first, dove towards Richie to catch it. He didn’t make it far enough and the ball glanced off the edge of his glove at an odd angle, and headed directly for Richie.

Richie had a million options. He could have put his hands up, or moved only slightly out of the way, or caught it— anything but what he did, which was stand there gawking at the ball, which proceeded to hit him squarely in the mouth.

Richie tumbled backwards onto the ground, his mouth exploding with pain. He heard vague shouts and the sound of movement through the grass, but loudest of all was the pounding of his heart in his ears, and brightest were the lights exploding behind his closed eyes. “Augh,” he tried moaning, but it hurt his mouth too much to do anything but leave it shut, so he desisted.

Mike got to him first. “Oh my god, I am so sorry.” He put a hand on Richie’s shoulder, which Richie jerked away from, his eyes snapping open. 

“Mmmrph,” Richie said, his hand over his mouth. He was bleeding, that much he could see. 

All of the Losers were crowding around: Stan, looking horrified, having dropped the bat back where he hit that god-awful ball; Ben and Beverly, running in from the benches, having not quite seen what had happened; Bill, already taking charge, telling the others to back away, make some space for Richie. And, of course, Eddie. Eddie, who did not follow Bill’s last instruction in the slightest.

“Richie! Richie, are you alright? Let me see.” Eddie kneeled in the grass beside Richie, and surrendered one of his hands to be gripped tight by Richie’s, who gave a little squeeze every time a shock of pain pulsed from his mouth. Eddie used his other hand to pry Richie’s hand from off his mouth, and to inspect the damage. Eddie paled when he saw the abundance of blood flowing from Richie’s face.

“Mmph?” Richie squeezed Eddie’s hand tighter, panic fluttering in his chest at Eddie’s expression. “Mrm, mrumph!”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, you’re fine!” Eddie’s voice was significantly higher than usual, which meant it was about two tones lower than a dog whistle. “Only, I think we should take you to the emergency room.”

“MMRPH! MRMM, MRMUHRH—“

Ben edged closer to get a look at it. “Are you sure you can’t just patch it up like you did me?”

“Look, that went well once, but I’m not really sure if I have the physical or emotional capacity to sew stitches inside my boyfriend’s mouth right now. Anyways, with you we didn’t take you to the hospital because we didn’t want any questions. This happened, well, innocently enough.”

And so Mike helped Richie to his feet and slung Richie’s arm across his shoulders, helped him walk to the hospital that was, conveniently enough, only down the street. Richie, for once, praised their small town.

“Mm rr yr srr ssrnn?”

Eddie tagged along just behind them as Mike heaved Richie up the street. “He just asked, “how are you so strong”?”

“Pigs are heavy,” Mike said. “A lot heavier than you, Richie.”

“Careful!” Eddie interjected as Mike hoisted Richie up onto the curb. “Don’t hurt him!”

Once inside, they all approached the counter in the waiting room and told the lady behind it a stuttering, haltering, due to their constant interruptions of each other, and altogether incoherent version of the story. The lady asked for the contact info for Richie’s parents, which Richie gave as best he could in his increasingly groggy state. He didn’t like to call his parents for important things, maybe because he always a little nervous that they wouldn’t come, but it was a Sunday and his dad showed up before too long and checked him in.

When it came time for Richie to be taken back behind the double doors, Eddie was loathe to stay behind; he desperately felt he needed to go back with him, to be his “interpreter”, but the nurse maintained that “non-family members must wait outside”. Eddie then tried telling her that he was Richie’s cousin, but he melted swiftly under the nurse’s shrewd gaze.

At the end of the afternoon, Richie returned to the waiting room, sporting three stitches in a numb and puffy lip, and an entire mouthful of cotton and gauze. His tooth had jabbed through his bottom lip with the impact of the ball, and caused a somewhat severe laceration inside his mouth. Eddie found out from the nurse that Richie was not to take the gauze out for the rest of the day, and absolutely not to speak, under any circumstances, for the next two days, for fear of reopening his wounds. The nurse also left Richie with a slip of paper excusing him from speaking in class the next day, as it was currently the waning hours of Sunday.

Richie was less than pleased with this turn of events. His displeasure deepened immensely at his friends’ reactions to the news of his involuntary silencing.

Stan looked up at the ceiling of the waiting room and grabbed the star of David pendant on his necklace. “Thank you, God. You’re so good to me. I promise I’ll be a good person for ever and ever and do all the mitzvahs and learn my torah portion perfectly and—“

“You can’t talk at all?” Beverly grinned at Richie. “You can’t reply to anything we say? But that seems so _hard_.”She knew what she was doing, that she-devil. She waggled his eyebrows suggestively at him, knowing what he wanted to say, but couldn’t: that that wasn’t the only thing that was hard.

Richie groaned, but even that was muffled by the cloth. At least his mouth was numb, but who knows how long that would last. He poked at his lip experimentally. He couldn’t feel anything but pressure and a vague sense of coldness.

“H-hey, Richie, a-are you okay?” At least Bill seemed genuinely concerned. “Do you want to g-go and get some i-ice cream? Oh, w-wait…” Bill couldn’t help but grin.

Richie lunged to hit him in the arm, but Eddie got between them. “Knock it off, guys! Come on, hasn’t Richie suffered enough for today? Let’s just go back to Bill’s house and work on that history project for tomorrow.”

Eddie walked hand in hand with Richie the whole way back, and any time somebody started to say something and Richie started to try to respond before remembering that he couldn’t, he tensed a little, and Eddie squeezed his hand. Halfway through the walk, after a dozen or so of these squeezes, Eddie came up with a solution that served to pacify Richie if only through its innate hilarity.

“Okay, how about I figure out what you were gonna say and say it instead? I’ll be like the substitute Richie. I’ll even do a voice! A Richie-voice.” Eddie beamed at the prospect.

That’s a terrible idea, Richie thought. You’re never gonna guess what I want to say, and if you do you won’t say it. Anyways, you’re worse at voices than I am. But Richie couldn’t say any of this, so he just shrugged, and Eddie took that as a go ahead.

“Hey, you guys want to come over to the farm after you’re done with school one of the days this week?” Mike asked, when they were a few blocks away from Bill’s house. 

“Sounds fun,” Ben said. “Can we ride your pig again?” Horace, Mike’s prize-winning pig, was so large, and rather tall for a pig, that he was able to support the individual weights of most of the Losers Club, and last time they had been to Mike’s house they had had a grand time riding the pig around the large pen, although they had to quickly dismount when Mike’s grandfather came in to check on them.

“You can ride _my_ pig any time,” Eddie said.

They all stopped dead still in the middle of the road and stared at him.

Beverly was the first to burst out in laughter, and everyone else broke not long after. “That is too weird,” she choked out. “It’s so much funnier when you say it— but I don’t think I can get used to that.”

Eddie blushed. “Sorry! It’s what I thought he would say!”

Richie clapped him on the back, gave him an approving nod. He tried to communicate through his expression the amount of pride swelling in his chest.

“You’re proud of me?” Eddie laughed. “Oh no. That’s definitely too weird.”

Back at Bill’s house, they tried their best to coordinate their history presentation for tomorrow, and all realized in the process how heavily they relied on Richie.

“H-how are we going to do this without R-Ruh-Richie?” Bill groaned, an hour into the series of Richie’s gesticulations and charades and Eddie’s only half-comprehensible interpretations of them. 

“One factor of the fall of Rome was…” Eddie squinted. Richie mimed it over and over, water flowing through pipes— lead pipes! They got their water from lead pipes! Giving up this tactic, he jumped onto Bill’s bed, arms outstretched as if to grapple with a lion, and then jumped off it again and clapped loudly, tried to cough on Stan next to him, although it came out a bit strange through the obstructions in his mouth. _Disease_. He willed them to understand him, pleaded to Eddie with his eyes. Lead pipes and the Colosseum both led to the spread of disease. 

Eddie frowned at him. “…Mud wrestling?” 

Richie threw his hands up in the air and fell back onto Bill’s bed. It was another hour until they remembered that Richie could write. 

It was going to be a long day tomorrow.


	38. Poker Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "hi" said: "ok so what if richie and eddie were playing video games or a game in general like a board game or something at richie’s house or whatever and richie was losing because he wasn’t focusing or something like that so he finds a way to distract eddie (i was thinking kissing)"
> 
> i agree with your "eddo excepto" and i hope u like this!!!
> 
> i currently have enough prompts to last me the rest of this section! you're always welcome to send in more if there's something you really want to see happen or you have any suggestions for the plot, but thank you all that sent in prompts thus far, they've been a great help :)

The next Friday after school they all rode home, grabbed their sleeping bags and swapped out their homework and textbooks for a change of clothes and a toothbrush, and then headed over to Bill’s.

Ben was the one to suggest cards, emboldened by his success last time they had played poker. Bill brought out a Star Wars-themed deck and a large jar of pennies, and they situated themselves in a large circle.

Richie sat next to Eddie, of course, and couldn’t help but glance every once and a while over at Eddie’s card, which Eddie was seemingly unable to keep hidden.

“I’ll raise you three,” Richie declared on the last round of betting of the fourth game.

“Ruh-Richie,” Bill said, exasperated. “You c-can’t just raise three.”

“Try and stop me.” Richie grinned.

“You have almost nothing left!” Stan gestured to Richie’s fairly empty pot. “You’re just bluffing, like every time, and no one’s gonna fall for it and you’re gonna lose!”

Richie raised his eyebrows. “Okay, then call my bluff. Match my bet.”

Ben, always a prudent spender, folded without protest.

Mike glanced at Ben, then back to Richie, then shrugged. “My strategy right now is to do what Ben’s doing; it seems to be working out pretty well for him.” He, too, folded.

Beverly rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright. I’m out. Have fun with your pissing contest, boys.”

Richie stared them down, the usual cocky grin on his face widening in millimeters with every passing tick of the clock that they sat in silence. 

Stan looked at Eddie. “What are you doing? You’re folding, aren’t you?”

Eddie frowned. “Why do you assume I am? I’m allowed to be good sometimes! Maybe I have, like, a super awesome hand, and I’m the one bluffing all of you.” Richie, who had been sneaking glimpses of Eddie’s cards all game, could affirm that Eddie was not. But just as surely as Richie knew that Eddie had nothing in his hand, he knew that this challenge by Stan would mean that Eddie wouldn’t back down, not yet. The best way to motivate Eddie was to say he couldn’t do something that he absolutely could not do. “I’m staying in. And… and I’m raising one!”

Stan groaned. “This is bullshit.”

Richie grinned. “Are you in or out?”

Stan stared at Richie. Richie stared back. Stan furrowed his brow. Richie’s smile broadened. Stan’s eyebrows pushed together like warring caterpillars. Richie licked his lips. Stan blinked.

“Fuck,” Stan said, and folded.

Bill looked back and forth between Eddie and Richie, the last survivor in their strange game of chicken. He looked down at his own dwindling pile of pennies, tried to judge the weight of losing four more of them on this round. He slowly shook his head. “I w-would stay in just to see if Richie’s b-bluffing or not, but it’s not worth it. H-hang in there, Eddie.”

Eddie turned to Richie, swallowed audibly. “So? You’ll meet my one?”

Richie pretended to consider it, then finally landed on, “Sure. Why not. And, you know what, just for being a good sport, I’ll raise you another two.”

Stan huffed from the sidelines. “This is ridiculous.”

“Shush,” Bev chided him. “I’m trying to watch.” She leaned forwards, scrutinizing Richie, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. 

Eddie was getting visibly flustered, a pink creeping up his check.

“Getting too hot for you, Eds?” Richie raised his eyebrow.

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie squeaked.

“Come on, just match me.” Richie lowered his voice to a sultry, deeper tone, his smooth jazz, rolling honey murmur. “I believe what you said, that you got a great hand. Let’s compare. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

A thin film of sweat coated Eddie’s brow, and the boy looked from Richie to his cards, Richie to his cars, back and forth like an uneasy pendulum.

Beverly leaned back, watching them intently. “Richie’s lying,” she said. “He hasn’t got anything.”

Mike shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t go this high— what if Eddie matches him? He’d lose everything. He’s got to be telling the truth on this one.”

“Either way, I’m glad I’m out,” Stan muttered, clearly wishing he was still in.

“I’m with M-Mike,” Bill said, after a careful moment. “Look at his eyes. Th-that’s the look of someone with n-nothing to lose. He’s probably g-got a straight or s-something.”

Ben sat, observantly silent.

Richie smiled at Eddie. Eddie sweated.

“Call my bluff.” Richie leaned in closer to Eddie. “Maybe I am lying. Call me and find out. You even got a pair, that’d be better than nothing.”

Eddie glanced down at his cards again, his hand of absolutely nothing. Richie could practically hear the poor boy’s heart beating.

“Come on, baby.” It was cruel, Richie knew, but it would seal the deal. “You’ve probably got better anyways.” He leaned in, whispered the next words on Eddie’s lips. “What have you got to lose?” Richie kissed Eddie, slow and deep, and when he pulled away Eddie was left hanging, uncertain, eyes locked on Richie’s, and that’s when Richie knew he had him.

Eddie’s eyes snapped down to his cards one last time, and then he folded, wordlessly, shaking his head, red as a beet.

All eyes turned to Richie. The unspoken question: what have you got?

Richie’s smile spread to wide, bottomless, doubling-over-in-two laughter, as he threw his cards in the middle, face-up. A beautiful, elegantly arranged hand… of absolutely nothing. Richie scooped in the piles of pennies as Stan swore like a sailor and Bill groaned and Beverly shouted again and again, “I knew it! I fucking knew it!”

“Sorry, babes,” he said to Eddie, but the fact that he couldn’t stop giggling made the apology come across as a little insincere. “You know, I got a reputation to uphold. Best bluffer in the county, they call me.”

“Who calls you that?” Eddie crossed his arms. “Nobody calls you that.”

“I can see five whole people who could readily testify to my bluffing abilities if anyone dares challenge the great Richie Un-fuckin-readable Tozier.”

Eddie groaned, but he was smiling.


	39. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i missed a day! yesterday was my annual halloween party (my costume this year is The Criminal from The Breakfast Club-- one of my favorite characters ever, which you might discover more in a future chapter :P).
> 
> to make up for it, i'm combining 2 prompts into one chapter for today! here are the prompts:
> 
> Gagaa said, "Could you do a chapter where the losers are at a sleepover and eddie and richie end up cuddling?"  
> Olivia Himes said, "I would love to see more development in terms of friendship for the whole losers club! Maybe some development involving Mike? Idk I just want to see more of all of them together!"

It was later that night, when the Losers’ collective unwillingness to move from their positions, huddled snugly in the nest they had constructed on Bill’s living room floor out of blankets and pillow, that their low-energy game of Truth or Dare devolved into Truth or Truth, and Richie remembered that the truth sucked sometimes.

“Bev,” Ben said. “If you could live in the world of any book, what would it be?”

Beverly did that thing that she always did when she was thinking, twirling the key hanging around her neck between her fingers, and raising it up to bite thoughtfully on its top. “That’s a good one. I don’t know… maybe the Princess Bride? I always loved the Princess Bride when I was a kid. Used to read it over and over. I think it’d be awesome to live in Florin. I’d be the new Dread Pirate Roberts and it would be the best.”

“Good answer,” Ben smiled.

“Okay, how about Bill?” Beverly’s gaze flickered over to Bill, and she smiled instinctually. “Here’s one for you, Mr. Good Guy. Have you ever cheated on a test?”

He didn’t even have to think about it. “N-no.”

Bev laughed. “What, like, never? Come on.”

Bill shook his head fervently. “N-never. It’s wrong.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Richie piped up from the other corner of the nest, where he was sinking in closer and closer to Eddie as the night went on. “Never ever fudged his way out of class on a fake doctor’s note or forged parental slip or anything, that’s what a stand-up guy he is.”

“I bet you haven’t either, have you, Ben?” Beverly looked over him.

Ben seemed surprised she was talking to him. “Oh, me? I mean, no, of course not.”

“Ben doesn’t need to cheat ‘cause he knows everything already,” Richie interjected, and Ben blushed.

Bill turned his attention to Stan. “Here’s o-one for you, Stan. Wh-who do you think has the w-worst fashion sense out of a-all of us?”

“Richie,” Stan said instantly.

“Hey!” Richie sat up. “Blatantly untrue! Have you seen Eddie’s fucking short-shorts?” He turned to Eddie. “Sorry darling, love you, but those shorts are god-awful.”

Stan shook his head. “Fashion sense is a combination of not just your clothes but the combinations of them, and the thought put into the outfits. Eddie clearly plans his outfits out, they’re color-coordinated more often than not, and they follow a cohesive style. You just throw random shit together.”

“Lies! Slander!” Richie spat. “I put thought into everything!”

“You have never put thought into anything in your life.” Stan dismissed him. “Come on, today you wore a green Hawaiian shirt over that purple shirt they shot at you with a cannon at the Labor Day parade to make you stop trying to steal that guy’s tuba, a pair of jorts, and a pair of Santa print socks under sandals.” 

“They’re Birkenstocks,” Richie mumbled.

“Oh, sure, flower child.” Stan rolled his eyes. 

Bev gave Richie a consolatory smile. “Sorry to break it to you, but he’s right, Rich. Your fashion sense is for shit.”

“Nobody understands me,” Richie complained.

“Alright, alright, my turn to ask.” Stan waved them off. “Mike. What was the last dream you can remember?”

Mike’s smile dropped. He cleared his throat, looked around, anywhere but at them. His eyes settled on the blanket beneath him, seeming to study the floral pattern. “Last night. It was the same as always.”

“You have a recurring dream?” Eddie asked.

“Nightmare,” Mike corrected. “A recurring nightmare, yeah.” He began to knead his hands, something Richie suspected was subconscious, like Beverly’s key, like the way Richie picked at his skin at the bottom corners of his fingernails. “It’s always the same. I’m walking down a hallway, and it looks nothing like my house but I just know it is, like in dreams, you know. And it’s a really long hallway, and at the end of it is a door, and the door is closed. And there’s sounds coming from behind the door, all these terrible sounds. Some of them are like children, screaming and crying, and some of them are… are my parents. And they’re shouting, too, and they’re calling out to me, so I start running, running to the door, but the hallway is just longer and longer and as I run the door doesn’t get any closer but everything gets darker, like I’m running farther away from the light. I start to smell this terrible smell, and I don’t know what it is at first, but then smoke starts coming out from underneath the door and it comes out towards my feet and I know that’s what I’m smelling. And then suddenly, somehow, I’m right up next to the door, and the smoke is filling the hallway and everything is dark but then there’s this glow, and I’m always so relieved at first, because I think that now I don’t have to be in the darkness. And then I realize that the glow is fire, and on the other side of that door people are burning. I try to open the doorknob but it’s locked tight and it won’t open, so I try hitting it, pounding on it, trying to get it open, because I can hear my parents on the other side burning and I can smell them, too, in the smoke, but I can’t open the door.”

The clock on the living room wall ticked loudly, conspicuously, in the silence. It was a little after midnight. They all held their breaths, watched Mike.

“And then w-what?” Bill ventured, softly.

Mike slowly raised his gaze, looked around at them. His eyes were glossy. “Well, since I can’t get the door open, I bend down and press my face to the floor and look through the crack under the door. And I-I see it, staring back at me.”

“See what?”

“Myself.”

Richie’s chest was cold.

“I see myself in there, looking back at me, and then the dream ends.” Mike let out a long, somewhat rattling breath. “I’ve never told anyone that before. Not my grandpa, not anybody.”

“Did it happen like that?” Eddie whispered. “When your parents— did you see it?”

“I was too young to remember, but Grandpa says the firefighters found me in the hallway outside my parents’ room. They said I should have died by smoke inhalation, that it was a miracle I survived. For a while I didn’t think it was a miracle, that I survived and they didn’t, but now I understand. I can do good in the world; I can live to make things better. That’s what I’ve got to do, right?”

Richie murmured in agreement; Eddie nodded, curling up next to him.

“I think I’ve got to have a purpose,” Mike said. “I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but I have to have one. What’s the point of me being here, being alive, if I don’t? So I’m just working as hard as I can to be a good person, and hoping the universe will guide me on the right path.”

“I-I understand that,” Bill piped up. “I b-buh-believe in God. At least, I th-think I do. It’s a nice thought. Muh-makes the world make sense.”

“I wish I did,” Ben said. “It seems like it makes things easier. I just can’t. There’s no proof, I just can’t believe that it’s real. It, he, whatever you want to call it. I need to see things, feel them, know the insides of how they work. I don’t like to accept anything that I don’t fully understand.”

“If there is anything out there,” Beverly said. “I don’t think it’s a “He”. Maybe there’s some kind of an energy, a force leading the world, I really don’t know. But I don’t think it’s a person and I definitely don’t think it’s a man.”

“That’s just how we humans describe it,” Stan argued. “It’s not a person, it’s a divine energy, a… I don’t know, it’s the soul of the world. The goodness inside everyone. Sometimes feelings can’t be explained. How do you analyze love? How do you describe how it feels?”

Eddie’s voice was soft. “It feels like you swallowed a ping pong ball and it’s sitting in the middle of your stomach and it’s heating you up from the inside. And it starts bobbing around when you see the person you love and it makes your stomach hurt and your heart race and your head feel dizzy and it’s like the worst kind of sickness, like you haven’t slept in a week, like you’re maybe dying.”

“It feels like laughter,” Richie said.

“That’s what I mean,” Stan said. “That’s God. It’s love. And kindness. And goodness.”

“I don’t know what I believe,” Mike said. “But I know there has to be something. There has to be a reason for all of this, right? For everything?”

“I wish,” Ben whispered.

“I h-hope,” Bill said.

“I don’t think there’s a reason for anything,” Richie said. “I mean, it’s cool if you believe that, and I get it, I really do, but I think it’d feel real shitty to think that someone else is making all my decisions for me, that nothing I do matters because it’s all predestined or some shit like that. Like, no offense, but I’m the one keeping my life together, and I’m the one who’s doing all the work here, and taking all the flak for my choices, so I’d better get the credit, too. Anyways, what kinda cruel God would sit down at his fuckin’ pottery wheel or something and think to himself, “hmm, what should I make for the next human? Ah, yes, how about _this piece of shit_ ”?”

“You’re right, your existence is best argument against religion I’ve ever heard,” Bev said, and they all laughed.

Richie glanced over at Mike. He was laughing too, and his hands had begun to stop fidgeting, He seemed relaxed again, and Richie let himself join in the laughter, the coldness in his chest warming a little. It was alright. He was here and Eddie was curled against him— Richie put an arm around Eddie, who snuggled closer in and drew the covers up to his chin— and come what may, at least they had this. At least they had each other. 


	40. The Losers Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this prompt by Alexanderfan: "The losers always tease Richie about talking too much, but one day someone (maybe an adult) is being unnecessarily cruel about it and tells him mean things, and the losers stand up for Richie, because he is their trashmouth and only they can tease him about it."
> 
> this was an amazing prompt, thank you so much! i had a lot of fun writing this. also, happy almost-halloween, everybody!!

Richie was sprawled in his desk chair, halfway done with a sloppy sketch of Eddie’s face, doodled in the margins of his Biology handout, when he felt the tap on his shoulder. He turned, surprised— he had no friends in class with him this period— and the unfamiliar girl in the seat behind him handed him a folded up sheet of paper. Richie frowned at her and she shrugged, gestured to the boy behind her. The boy was unfamiliar, too, and he glanced back across the class, his eyes tracing a path from student to student back to a boy in the back row. Richie’s heart sank. Of course it was from Henry goddamn Bowers.

Richie thought about not opening it. He could pass it back, or make a show of sticking it in his bag and not reading it. Or he could rip it up, or wad it into a ball, and throw it away on his way out of class. That sure would piss Henry off.

But then Richie looked back down at the slip of paper on his desk, and thought about what it could be. It could be a threat. Or a taunt. Or some kind of obscene drawing. Henry was obviously trying to rile him up. Ever since that day during dodgeball, Henry had escalated, focusing in on Richie, and the whole of the Losers Club, by extension. They had to bike the long way home, avoiding the alleys where they knew it would be easy for the Bowers Gang to corner them, and keep their guards up during lunch. Once, on his way to their lunch table, Stan had been tripped by Belch Huggins and landed face-first in his mashed potatoes, and just the other day Bev had arrived at her locker to find the word “bitch” scrawled in Sharpie. It wasn’t easy to get off.

Richie thought he should really just throw that note away. Nothing good could come of it. 

The note leered at him.

Richie tried to focus on what the teacher was saying, something about Japan.

The note smirked.

Fuck, Richie thought, and picked the note up unfolded it. He looked at it, blinked, and frowned. On the note was a crude, stick-figure drawing of their teacher, Mr. Doucette, with an unfortunate pair of devil horns on his head and a large label that said “Mr. Douche”. Richie turned around to stare at Henry, utterly confused. Was this some sort of peace offering? Was Henry seriously trying to commiserate over their social studies teacher (who Richie conceded was an absolute asshole)? Henry grinned back at him.

“Mr. Tozier,” Mr. Doucette said, and Richie snapped back to face the front of the classroom. He immediately drew his hands to his lap, trying to refold the paper and stick it under his thigh, but Doucette glared down at him. “Is that something you’d like to share with the class?”

Richie swallowed. He swore he could feel Henry’s grin boring into the back of his head. That slimy piece of shit. That no good prick. That son of a bitch. “It’s nothing, Mr. Doucette,” Richie started, but his teacher was faster, and strode over, plucking the paper from Richie’s hands before he could hide it.

Mr. Doucette unfolded the paper, took a long, hard look at it, and crumpled it in his fist. When his gaze returned, Richie was glad that looks couldn’t kill, because the glare Mr. Doucette was directing at him was more piercing than an arrow to the heart. “You think this is appropriate classroom material?”

“Mr. Doucette, I—“

“You know, I’ve heard about you. The middle school teachers, they all talk about you in the teachers’ lounge, did you know that? I’ve heard the stories.”

“I’m flattered, Mr. Doucette, but actually—“

“You know what they call you? I’m sure you do. I’ve heard kids say it before. You must be used to it by now, right?”

Richie opened his mouth to protest, to explain, it was Henry, it was Henry, but he found that he could not talk. He couldn’t do anything but stare at his teacher and think about the kids sitting enxt to him and what they were thinking and why was he doing this, he surely wasn’t allowed to say things like this, not to students, not in front of everyone—

“I always hated the word,” Mr. Doucette continued. “Trashmouth”. I thought it was terribly crude, and not the sort of thing one should say about a student. Surely he can’t be that bad, I said. Surely he’s a bright student, you just need to give him a little space, the benefit of the doubt.” His fist tightened, holding the crumpled paper up. “But this? This— this demonstrates not only complete disrespect to your educators and your school, but a disarming lack of interest in anything I have been trying in vain to get into your head over the past forty-five minutes.” He turned away from Richie, took a step back to address the entire class. “This, class, is the exact student that your professors in universities will hate, the kind of worker employers will never hire. He thinks he’s so smooth, so cool, so very smart, that he doesn’t listen to a word you say. Mr. Tozier here thinks he’s better than all of you, doesn’t he?” He looked back at Richie. “Don’t you?”

After a moment, it became clear that he actually expected an answer. Richie willed the words to come. Screw the right words, any words will do. Don’t go down like this, he thought. You don’t respond now, you’ll be the laughingstock of the class, of the entire school. Don’t let the cold-blooded motherfucker humiliate you now. So Richie closed his mouth, took a breath, opened it again. “No, Mr. Doucette, I don’t think I’m better than all of them. I’m sure there are quite a few people in this class that are smarter than me. There’s definitely at least a dozen that are stronger. I don’t think I’m better than these kids here at all. The only one I think I’m better than is you, sir.”

The girl to Richie’s right let out a high, nervous, tittering laugh. She immediately covered her mouth with her hand, horrified at her indiscretion.

Looking back on this moment later, Richie thought that this part was probably a mistake. Well, the whole thing was a mistake, but he at least should have stopped there, considered the dangerous look in Doucette’s eyes and shut his damn mouth. But hindsight is always 20/20, and in that minute Richie was squinting through his smudged up coke-bottle glasses. “And, of course, Henry Bowers. But even he must be smarter than you, since he’s got you swallowing his bullshit hook, line, and sinker. That note isn’t mine, sir, it’s Henry’s, and I might be his patsy, but what does that make you?”

Mr. Doucette was tight lipped. Richie was actually worried for a moment that the teacher might slap him. He even forgot in the moment about Henry seething in the back row at Richie ratting him out, because he was so afraid of that look in Doucette’s eyes. But his teacher didn’t slap him; he just walked back to his seat behind his desk, looking very tired all of a sudden, and sat down, put the note in his desk. “Detention this Saturday. Both of you,” he said, and then the bell rang. 

Students rushed out, looking relieved to get out of that classroom. Richie packed his bag stiffly, jolting when Henry shoved roughly by him. He stood to leave, but Mr. Doucette gestured for Richie to wait, so he did until all of the other students had left and they were alone in the classroom. Richie stood rigidly in front of his teacher’s desk, his nails digging into his palms. 

“You know, I’m sorry for you, Tozier.”

“Sorry for me,” Richie echoed. He studied the world map taped above the blackboard behind Mr. Doucette, refused to look anywhere else. His eyes were getting that weird feeling, and he would not let that bastard see him so much as wince, much less cry like a fucking baby.

“You’re going to get out into the real world in four years and you’re not going to know what’s hit you. Maybe a college will accept you, a state university, bide you over for another four, but what then? Eventually, you’re going to have to strike it out on your own, and I don’t think you’re going to like what you find. You’re going to put yourself out there, try to get a job, try to get a girlfriend, and you’re going to fail. Because you act like you’re better than everybody else, but you know what you are, deep down. You’re a loser.”

Richie looked down and met Doucette’s gaze. “You can’t say that to me,” he said softly. 

“I don’t want to, but it’s the truth. That’s why you try so hard to convince everyone of the contrary. You’re a loser. It’s better for you to hear it now, from me, so you won’t be shocked when you hear it again later.”

Richie took a shaky breath and lifted his chin. “Mr. Doucette, you aren’t the first person to call me Trashmouth, and you aren’t the first one to call me a loser, either. And you won’t be the last. Maybe I am a loser. Maybe I’m a dumb, unlikeable shit who can’t keep his mouth shut. I’ve heard that one before, too. But you know what, don’t feel sorry for me. **I’m** sorry for **you**. ‘Cause I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, and you’re just a sad old man who gets off on controlling people and humiliating kids. And I’m gonna go home tonight and hang out with my stupid loser friends and we’re gonna play some stupid loser games together and have more fun than you’ve ever had in your life, and you’re gonna go home to your dark, empty house and remember what I’m saying right now and cry yourself to sleep. So, don’t feel sorry for me. I’m good.”

Richie hiked his backpack up on his shoulder, turned, and walked out of the classroom.

“No you fucking didn’t,” Stan said when Richie told them at lunch.

Richie nodded mutely, pushed his food around with his fork.

“Sh-shit, Richie,” Bill said, and gently put a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “I’m s-sorry. You’re right, he c-can’t talk to you like that. He should be f-f-fired.”

“He won’t be,” Stan said. “Richie’s lucky he got off with one detention. He could’ve been suspended.”

“He probably only wasn’t because Mr. Doucette knows what he did was unprofessional,” Ben said. “Suspending Richie would risk the administration finding out the whole conversation.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Richie muttered. His chicken nuggets looked lonely, and eating one seemed too great a disservice to the others, so he just pushed them around each other, bumper cars at the Fourth of July fair. “I’m stuck in detentionwith Henry Bowers for six hours on Saturday. And now I’m gonna have to sit there every week in class and they’re all gonna laugh at me and Henry’s gonna get away with whatever he wants because Doucette hates me. All the teachers hate me and they’re just gonna let Henry murder me in study hall.”

“They’re not gonna let him murder you,” Bev chided gently. “Come on. They don’t all hate you. Your teacher’s an ass, but you gave him what for. I’d say you came out of it pretty well.”

Richie looked up at her. “How is eleven to five alone with Henry Bowers “pretty well”? I’m gonna get pummeled. I’m gonna get the ass kicking of my life.” He looked over to Eddie. “You’re fucking quiet.”

Eddie was staring at the far wall, eyes glossy.

“Hey, Michael Myers, you too busy staring at a wall, not seeing the wall, looking past the wall, to engage in this conversation?” Richie snapped his fingers in front of Eddie’s face, and Eddie jerked out of it, turning to Richie. “Any last words before I die? You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, you know. You could help a little.”

“I’m thinking,” Eddie said.

Richie stopped pretending he was going to eat and dropped his fork down; it clattered against the tray. “Oh, great. You’re thinking. Wonderful.”

“Richie,” Bev said. “Come on.”

Eddie looked up at Bev, a strange expression on his face. “Bev, give me your lipstick.”

“What?” 

“You have lipstick in your bag, right? That red you’re wearing now. Let me have it.”

“Again, I repeat: what?” Bev frowned at him, but she rummaged through her bag to find the tube, drew it out of a side pocket. “What the hell for?”

“Will you let me have this if I promise to buy you a new one tonight?” Eddie looked incredibly earnest.

“Uh, yeah, I guess?” Bev handed it over, looking utterly bewildered.

Richie stared at Eddie. “What are you doing?” 

Eddie held the tube of lipstick out to Richie. “Write it on my forehead.”

“Write what? What are you even talking about? Are you here right now? Earth to Eddie.”

“Loser. Write it on my forehead.”

Richie blinked, took a long look at Eddie. “You’re serious.”

Eddie nodded. “Completely.”

Richie looked down at the tube of red in his hand. “No, this is crazy. You’re gonna get in trouble. You can’t just get in trouble for me.”

“Write it or I’ll do it myself, and it’ll look horrible because I won’t be able to see what I’m doing.”

And so Richie wrote “LOSER” in red on his boyfriend’s forehead. They all stared at Eddie, and Eddie stared right back. He emanated a strange, intense sort of power, and it made Richie want to kiss him right there in the middle of the cafeteria.

“Hey, if you’re a loser, then I am too,” Bev piped up. “Do me next, Richie.” She found a barrette in her bag and clipped her bangs out of her face, and then Richie scrawled the word in the same large block letters across her freckles.

“I’ll do it, too.” 

Richie was surprised to see Ben lean forwards next, but he obliged, wearing down the lipstick little by little. Bill followed suit, scooting close so that Richie could brand him in turn. Stan was the last one to agree, looking mildly exasperated at the whole subject, but when he looked at Richie, really looked and saw the look in Richie’s eyes, he nodded and closed his eyes as Richie wrote the letters.

“Who’s going to do me?” Richie held the lipstick out to Eddie, but Eddie shook his head.

“You don’t need it. You already have one detention. This’ll get all of us in there with you, so Henry can’t hurt you. And it’ll show Doucette. I’m in world history with Bill and Bev next period with him. He’ll see these, and he’ll know.”

“I fucking love you,” Richie said.

“I know.” Eddie smiled, and looking at him, Richie wondered how the word on their heads could have ever meant something bad. It was a beautiful word, and it was theirs.


	41. Detention: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two prompts combined for this one:  
> Snakewhore: "It’d be really cute to see overprotective eddie again but like c r a z y overprotective u kno???? i’m sorry if that makes no sense but i just think that eddie being really concerned for his hurt boyfriend is the cutest thing!!"  
> Pepper Anne: "Maybe Richie can finally tell Eddie what's going on at home after his parents are completely indifferent about his injury or after they do something fucked up and he goes to confide in Eddie? Thank you so much you are awesome!"
> 
> also, HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!!!!!

Richie showed up to detention last, as per usual. Everybody was else was already positioned in their desks; everybody, of course, including all of the rest of the members of the Losers Club, Henry Bowers, and his second in command Victor Criss.

Richie had only been in detention once before, back in middle school, for saying something irrevocably rude that he couldn’t quite remember anymore to the drama teacher after being denied a part in the school play. Bill had gotten the lead and Stan had even gotten a part, standing in the back dressed like a shrub. Richie had been outraged. “I’m funny! I’m super funny, and— and versatile! I can lay any role in the world, I swear, put me wherever you want, just let me in the show!”

“It’s not your talents that keep you out of the cast, Mr. Tozier,” the drama teacher had said, not unkindly. “It’s your attitude. At auditions, if I recall, you called Reginald Huggins a “useless hunk of rotting meat”.”

And then, Richie was sure, he’d said something awful in return. All he remembered now was that detention had been long and boring and his friends had maintained that it had been completely his own fault.

This time, however, at least he had the moral high ground. He settled into a desk in the front row, one that they had left open between Eddie and Ben, right in front of Stan. The teacher overseeing detention was Mrs. Linder, one of the less horrible ones; she taught Spanish to the high schoolers, so a few of the Losers were in her class. Richie was taking French, but he’d seen her around, and Beverly had said she was alright. She gave them the run-down on the rules, “for those of you who have not been here before”, meaning, of course, Bill, and Ben, and Eddie and Stan. Henry and Vic, who had taken their seats as far away as possible, in the back corner of the room, seemed to already be tuning it out, and Bev leaned back in her seat with a sigh. Richie knew she’d spent more Saturdays in this room than she’d like to admit.

The rules were as follows: no leaving their seats, no eating until the designated lunch time, no sleeping, and absolutely no talking. Mrs. Linder elucidated all of these tenets of detention to them, and then promptly left them alone, to go grade papers in their office down the hall. She said she’d hear if they were talking or moving around, so they’d better not try it. She told them to just sit there and think about what they’d done, or do their homework, she didn’t relaly care much, as long as they kept out of trouble. “This is only for six hours,” she reminded them, “and I’m as stuck here as all of you are, so let’s try to make it go fast.”

As soon as she was out the door, Richie stretched, yawned loudly, and turned around in his seat to address the Losers. “Okay, so who brought playing cards?”

“Oh, come on, Richie,” Stan groaned. “You heard what she said. Let’s just get this over with.”

“O calm, dishonorable, vile submission!” Richie slammed his hand on his desk, at which they all jumped a little in their seats, glancing around to the door to see if Mrs. Linder had heard. Richie, however, carried on. “That’s from Romeo and Juliet and it means you’re a wimp. What happened to good ol’ rebellious Stanley Uris, the one that defended me so gallantly in the lunch hall?”

“He got detention,” Stan said, much quieter than Richie, shooting a nervous look over at Henry and Vic. “And he had to lie to his parents about where he is right now, and he’s not feeling great about it.”

“Me too, Rich,” Eddie said.

“Et tu, Brute?” Richie placed a hand over his heart, mock stricken.

“I just mean, we did our rebellion! We told them off, showed them a united front, showed them that, I don’t know, the power of friendship is stronger than all that bullshit, but I really don’t want to get another detention next week. I can’t risk my mom finding out about it.”

Richie sunk glumly back in his seat. “Oh, great. So now we’re just gonna be stuck here in silence for 6 hours because you all are too afraid to Breakfast Club it up in here.”

They descended into a sizzling silence. Richie shot angry looks back at Henry and Vic every few minutes. They had pulled their desks closer to each other and were talking in low tones about something. Richie didn’t like it. They were up to something, he knew it. They were scheming some sort of evil scheme and the Losers should be counter-scheming but instead they were just sitting there in silence, wasting their precious scheming time. 

The clock on the wall ticked. It was almost 11:30. Richie yawned.

Eddie took out his homework. Richie thought he probably should have thought to bring his, but he didn’t. 

Richie listened to Eddie’s pencil scratch across the graph paper.

“Alright.” Bev’s voice broke the silence. “Sorry, y’all, but I’ve been through enough detentions to to know that this whole “follow the rules” plan lasts an hour, tops, and I don’t have enough patience to wait that long, so let’s just skip the shifting and finger-drumming and loud coughing and go right to the part where I tell Richie that yeah, I totally brought cards, and who’s in?”

“Oh, thank god,” Richie said.

They all ended up on the floor, because it would be easier to hide the cards and jump back into their seats this way than if they moved all the desks. They were fairly sure that Mrs. Linder wasn’t going to check on them until lunchtime in a half hour, but it was good to play it safe anyways. Richie ended up on the part of the circle were his back was fully to Henry and Victor, and he didn’t like it one bit; he kept checking over his shoulder to see if they were, like, standing right behind him horror-movie style. But they never were. They continued to just sit there, and mutter to each other, and shoot the occasional glance in the Losers’ direction.

“Isn’t it weird?” Richie whispered to Eddie, halfway through the third game of Go Fish— they had no pennies to bet with, and they’d tried with paper clips but there weren’t enough for a truly rousing game of poker, so they went back and forth a few times on what game to play before settling unenthusiastically on the children’s game. “They haven’t said a word to us the whole time.”

“I know,” Eddie whispered back. “I’m keeping my eye on them. Maybe they decided to keep out of trouble for today.”

“Maybe,” Richie said, thinking there was no way in hell that was possible. “Also, you’re bleeding.”

“What? Where?” Eddie jumped to his feet, dropping his cards and staring down at himself in horror.

“Your cards,” Richie laughed. “When people can see your cards, it’s called bleeding, buddy.”

Eddie blushed, sat back down, collected his cards. “Oh. I knew that. I was just joking.”

They caught themselves five minutes before noon, and packed the cards up, giving them back to Bev to hide in her bag. They all scattered back to their seats and sat, looking as dutiful and bored as possible. Mrs. Linder entered, educated them about the detention lunch rules, and left them again, looking more tired than them.

“Fuck,” Richie said, as all the others drew out their lunch bags.

“What?” Eddie frowned at him.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to bring a lunch. Was there a PSA or something?”

Ben looked over at him, unloading a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his bag. “Detention goes from 11:00 to 5:00. Did you think they were going to starve us?”

“I thought maybe we’d get to, like, go to the cafeteria. I’ve only ever been in after-school detention, you know, and that was pretty different.”

Eddie’s frown deepened. “You can’t just not eat.”

Richie shrugged. “I’ve done it before. Sometimes on the weekends I’m out and too busy, or my parents’ll forget to get food, so I just skip breakfast or lunch, it’s no biggie as long as I don’t skip both.”

“No! That’s a yes biggie!” Eddie unloaded three small tupperware containers, one with carefully cut celery sticks and ranch dressing, one with two diagonal halves of a sandwich, and one full of slices of apple, and placed them on Richie’s desk. “Eat.”

“No way.” Richie picked them up and put them back on Eddie’s desk. “That’s your lunch. You know you need to eat.”

“We’re all humans. We all need to eat.” Eddie moved them back over. “Especially you. You’re bigger than me.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how that works.” Richie picked them back up and let them fall with a plop onto Eddie’s desk. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

Eddie turned around with a little huff. “Stan. Bill. Help me out here.”

And so Richie found himself with a desk piled with food: three slices of Eddie’s apple, one half of one of Ben’s sandwiches, some carrots from Bill, a brownie from Stan, a water bottle from Bev. “Come on, you guys. You don’t need to do this,” Richie said, but he found himself picking up a carrot and savoring the taste as he gnawed on it. 

“Obviously your stomach says different,” Eddie said, after a particularly greedy rumble from Richie’s traitorous stomach. “How would you survive without us? Didn’t even bring a lunch. Jesus.” Richie was too busy eating to respond, but he didn’t need to, because Eddie went on, in a softer tone: “Does that happen a lot?”

Richie looked over at him, quirked an eyebrow. “What?” He managed, around a bite of sandwich.

“Ew, gross, don’t talk with food in your mouth. Chew, swallow, then talk.” Eddie shot a disgusted look Richie’s way. “I mean, your parents. Not feeding you.”

Richie shrugged. Chewed. Swallowed. “It’s not really that big of a deal. I usually buy myself stuff anyways, I’m just busy sometimes.”

“It is a big deal,” Eddie said. “What else don’t your parents do for you? At least your dad came to help you when your lip got hurt.”

Richie snorted. “Yeah. He was real sympathetic. Didn’t say a damn word to me the whole time except that if I got myself fucked up again he wasn’t using his insurance to cover it.”

It was quiet for a moment, and Richie turned to find Eddie staring at him, looking pale and glassy-eyed. “Hey, come on,” Richie said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He put his sandwich down. “Hey, seriously, I’m sorry. Don’t get that look. Please don’t get upset.” He reached out a hand for Eddie’s, and Eddie pulled away and stood up out of his chair.

“”Don’t get upset”? “ _Don’t get upset_ ”? Of course I’m upset! How the fuck am I supposed to help you when you don’t tell me stuff like this?”

The room was quiet. Everyone was staring at Eddie and Richie, food paused in midair, halfway to their mouths.

“Eddie, please, sit back down,” Richie said, in a quiet, controlled tone. “Listen—“

“No, you listen to me! You keep trying to act like you’re not my responsibility, like you can take care of yourself and do fine on your own, but you obviously can’t! You wouldn’t eat if I didn’t remind you! You wouldn’t take a goddamn shower! I’m the reason we’re all here with you in the first place, helping you out. And I don’t mind, Richie, I like taking care of you, because that’s what I do, I take care of people, and especially you, always you, but you need to fucking let me. I get that it’s hard to talk about stuff, but if you can talk to anyone about this, it should be me. You _are_ my responsibility, you _are_ , and you know that, and you know how shitty it makes me feel when you don’t tell me things. And I’m not talking things like you got a B on your algebra quiz; you don’t need to keep me updated on your bowel movements, but I tell you everything, everything that goes on in my life, and you don’t even tell me that you’re skipping meals. It makes me feel like— like I’m not important to you or something, like you care more about being some cool lone ranger macho man who keeps everything close to his chest— more about looking cool than you care about me!”

Richie was clenching his fists tighter and tighter. He didn’t bite his nails, but he didn’t often remember to clip them either, and a sharp edge of his index fingernail embedded into the palm of his hand. He clenched them tighter, felt sticky wetness. “Eddie, shut up.”

“”Eddie, shut up”? That’s all you have to say? Jesus, not even an “I do care about you”, not an explanation, nothing to help me understand? Fucking typical, this is the one time you’re not gonna talk.”

“Shut the fuck up, Eddie,” Richie hissed. His palm hurt, it hurt so bad, but he kept on digging his nail in.

“You’re such an asshole sometimes. I love you, you know that, but you can really be such an asshole.”

The silence rang loudly through the room for a moment. When Richie spoke, it was thin-lipped, balancing on the rim of a wine glass, delicate and on the very edge. “Why the fuck should I tell you things,” Richie said, quietly, his fingernail covered in blood. “If you’re not going to listen to a thing I say?” 

Eddie stared at him. The anger was gone, dropped off in a heartbeat. Eddie could read Richie’s expression. He always could. “Wh—“

“What did I tell you? I told you to sit down.” Richie stood up, hands on the desk, and leaned towards Eddie. “And I told you to shut. Up.” 

Eddie looked into Richie’s eyes for a long second, breath held, and then he got it. Looked over at Henry Bowers and Victor Criss. Looked back at Richie. Looked very lost and very afraid. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, shit, Richie, I—“

“No, no,” came Henry’s loud voice from the back of the room. “Don’t stop on our account. It was just getting good. Please, continue.”

Eddie stood there, swaying, looking paler than Richie had ever seen him. His lips were moving almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t utter a sound. 

Richie stood across from him, feeling dizzy, feeling sick, feeling shaky with anger, feeling terrified. His hand hurt. He raised it and looked at it. Oh. He was bleeding. More than he’d thought. The blood ran down his palm. 

The door opened. “Why are you out of your seats?” Mrs. Linder strode in. “Tozier, Kaspbrak, sit down immediately.”

Richie couldn’t move. A drop of blood ran down his palm and splattered onto the floor.

“R-R-Ruh-Richie cut his hand,” Bill managed. “P-paper cut. Eddie w-was just getting him a b-b-b-buh— a bandaid.”

“Oh. Well, then.” She crossed her arms.

“Right.” Eddie unfroze. He bent and rummaged through his bag to find the tin of bandaids he always kept in there, and got out one from his Star Wars set. He held it out to Richie, his hand shaking, his eyes downcast. Chewbacca gazed solemnly up at Richie.

Richie took the bandaid, unfolded the wings, and pressed it to his palm. He looked up at Mrs. Linder. She was still looking at them.

“Right,” Eddie repeated, and sat back down. Richie followed suit.

Mrs. Linder looked over all of them once more, her gaze lingering on Richie, and finally left, giving a more or less satisfied nod.

The door clicked behind her, and Henry began to laugh.

And then Beverly was out of her chair and moving towards him. “You think this is funny? I’m sure you do, you soulless prick. How funny is it when it’s your dad who doesn’t give a fuck about you?”

He quieted immediately. “Don’t talk about my dad.”

“Oh, like we don’t all already know. “Oh, I slipped and fell”,” Bev started, in a mocking imitation of Henry’s voice. “”Oh, the door hit me on the way out”. Everybody knows your daddy hits you. If I were you I wouldn’t think this is so goddamn funny.”

And then Henry was on his feet, and Bill was standing up, and then they were all on their feet, the Losers behind Beverly and a nervous-looking Victor behind Henry. Richie found himself standing next to Eddie. He didn’t look at him, he couldn’t, but he reached out his hand, the one with the band-aid on his palm, and Eddie took it.


	42. Detention: Part 2

“You bitch,” Henry spat, taking a step towards Beverly.

“Oh, real creative.” Beverly rolled her eyes. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

Richie squeezed Eddie’s hand, standing with the others behind Beverly, and kept his eyes trained on Henry. His heart was pounding in his ears, and his breath came quicker that he wanted. Cool it, he thought. Relax. Don’t let him know how freaked out you are. Play it off, like you always do.

Except he couldn’t this time. He had already shown too much, and Eddie had definitely already said too much, for either of them to act like this was no biggie. This was way biggie. And Bev knew it, and that’s why she was doing this. 

“You don’t know anything about me, or about my dad,” Henry said.

“I don’t? Because I think I know a whole lot more than you want me to. Do you shut your big mouth when you’re around him? Do you lie awake at night listening through the floor to see if he’s gonna come upstairs and start in on you again? I bet you’re fucking terrified. I bet you cry sometimes. When’s the last time you cried, Henry?”

Henry grabbed her by the collar and yanked her roughly toward him. She didn’t flinch. Henry sneered in her face, “I don’t cry. I’m not a goddamn pansy. What about you, Marsh? Does your daddy make you cry?”

Richie started towards them, but Bill got there first. “G-g-get your hands o-off her.”

Henry turned to Bill, but didn’t let go. “Aw, if you s-s-say so, I guess I h-have to.” A mocking smile spread across his face. “You’re so _brave_ **,** Denborough. You’re so _good_. I’m sure your little friends love that, love being told what to do all the time by their fearless leader. I’m sure Marsh really appreciates you swooping in to save her, your damsel in distress.”

“I’m n-n-nuh-nuh—“ Bill’s face was red, his hands fists at his sides. He couldn’t get the word out, but he kept on trying. “N-n-nuh—“

“Hey, at least he has friends.” Richie felt a rush of relief that Bill’s broken record stuttering was cut short, but didn’t expect who it was that interrupted: Stan. “Look, I didn’t even want to be here in the first place, and I really would have liked to just serve my time in peace, but I’m not just gonna stand here and let you stay stuff like that to my friends.”

Victor stepped up from behind Henry. “Like your little club is blameless. Marsh is the one that started this.”

Beverly stared defiantly up at Henry, her face inches from his. He was still holding her close, stretching out the front of her tank top, neither one backing away.

When Beverly spoke, it was slow, clearly articulated. “You’re not gonna tell anybody about what you heard today. You’re not gonna talk about Richie, or Eddie, or any of us.”

Henry laughed. “Why not?”

“Because it’s none of your business. And because you should know better. Imagine how it would feel if someone went around school telling everyone that your dad is a shitbag?”

Henry narrowed his eyes. “Nobody would dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t they?” Beverly raised her eyebrows.

Ben took a step towards them. “Let’s all calm down, talk this over like responsible adults.”

“We’re not adults,” Victor pointed out. He actually looked nervous, sweat beading on his brow beneath his flop of blonde hair. 

“No, but we can pretend,” Ben tried. “Henry, just— just let go and we can work this out.”

Henry wasn’t listening. He pulled Beverly closer still. “Are you threatening me?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Am I?”

“No, no, she’s not,” Ben said. “Nobody’s threatening anybody. We’re all calm, and civilized, and letting go of each other…”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Henry growled at Beverly. “I know who you are. So does the whole school. Who do you think they’d believe, me or the ginger whore of Derry High?”

“That’s not calm, or civilized,” Ben said, louder this time, and took another step forwards. Richie stared at him. He’d never seen the boy act half so decisive or bold as he was now. Love makes you do crazy things, Richie thought.

Henry finally let his gaze snap away from Bev. He looked around the room, as if unable to see Ben. “What’s that noise? It sounds just like… a pig. Oink, oink.” He made a grotesque snuffling sound into the air as his eyes settled on Ben.

And that was when Beverly head butted Henry in the nose.

He howled, jerking back and finally releasing his hold on her. “You bitch!” His hands went to his face, but not for long, and he was soon striking out at Bev, aiming a punch to her head. She dodged it, but just barely, and Henry’s readied himself for another punch.

Richie felt the strange physical sensation of moving without willing his body to do it; he was halfway to Henry before he realized he was charging. By the time his wits fully caught up to him, he was already pummeling into Henry, knocking him onto the floor. It was as much of a surprise to him as it was to Henry, and when he found himself on top of Henry, he didn’t quite know what to do. So he tried punching him. That sounded like the appropriate action to take in this sort of situation.

Henry let out a grunting, strangled noise that greatly pleased Richie, so Richie tried again. This time, though, Henry caught his arm, and twisted it away, throwing Richie off of him. They tumbled, and ended up in the space between two desks, Henry now on top of Richie. 

Henry pinned one Richie’s wrists down and pressed his other hand against Richie’s cheek, forcing his head to the side. Richie struggled against the cold of the linoleum, but Henry was stronger. He always had been. Henry leaned in, the blood dripping from his nose only making him more terrifying. “If only you’d shut your boyfriend up in time,” he snarled. Richie couldn’t see Eddie from the way Henry was pushing his head, but he could hear the boy’s high, shrill voice calling out, struggling against something. Richie’s money was on Victor. “What did he say?” Henry continued. “You’re his responsibility? Poor kid asked you if he was important to you and you told him to shut up. You know, I don’t know much about queers, but if I were him that sure would hurt my feelings.”

“Stop,” Richie gasped, and Henry pushed his skull harder and harder into the floor. “Stop!” He struggled again, tears springing to his eyes, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t get out from under him, and his head hurt so bad and—

“ _Don’t you fucking touch him!_ ” There was a loud sound like a monkey screech, and then Eddie had leapt onto Henry’s back, hands fastening around the larger boy’s throat. Henry’s pressure on Richie’s head lifted and Richie twisted out from under him just as Henry fell backwards, clutching at Eddie’s hands on his throat.

Richie scrambled to his feet, adjusting his glasses, and quickly surveyed the scene. Eddie was throttling Henry, a wild look in his eyes, and Beverly was tending to a split lip, presumably from Victor, who was standing back now, hands in the air, watching the proceedings with wide eyes. 

Hurried footsteps rang down the hall, and everybody froze. 

Eddie looked up at Richie. Richie stared back at him, and then his gaze shifted to Beverly. She was looking at Henry, who was looking at Victor, whose eyes were flickering between Ben, Bill, and Stan, who had surrounded him in a wary semicircle. 

The footsteps clicked up to the door, and as the doorknob turned Eddie pushed himself away from Henry and they all ran to their seats, moving faster than they had thought possible. 

When Mrs. Linder reentered, they were all back behind their desks, chests heaving and hands clasped nervously. Henry reached up and wiped a trickle of blood away from his nose. Eddie coughed and rustled in his seat. 

“I heard yelling,” Mrs. Linder said, and was greeted by a resounding silence. “I know you were doing something. You might think this is funny, but I can assure you it is not. Now, who’s going to tell me what’s going on?”

Henry Bowers was one scary motherfucker. He had been harassing and beating up the Losers for as long as Richie could remember the friend group existing, and currently Richie was preoccupied by the pounding still in his head, the feeling of cold fingers against his cheeks. But if there was one rule that governed that otherwise lawless jungle that was the Derry public school system, it was that you never, ever snitched. Short or murder, there was no amount of violence that one kid could perpetrate against another that would warrant ratting out, in the eyes of the mob. 

And so the eight kids sat there mute as Mrs. Linder waited for the assertion of blame that would never come.

The teacher took a different approach. “Okay, how’s this: unless one of you gives me an explanation for this, all eight of you are back in detention next week.”

“You can’t be serious,” Stan said. “We didn’t do anything. You can’t send us back here.”

“I can, and I will. Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Mr. Uris?”

Stan shut his mouth, but Richie could see the vein twitching in his jaw. Mrs. Linder threaded herself between the desks, making her way over to Stan.

“I know it’s hard to be one to speak first,” she said. “But you’ll really be helping your friends, and yourself. I know you don’t want to miss out on your weekends. And I’m sure it’s not an easy decision to let all of these detentions go on your school record. But if you really think you can’t tell me anything, anything at all…”

Stan was crumbling, and she knew it, and so did Richie. He watched as Stan’s hands curled and uncurled on his lap, his jaw clenching.

“It’s such a shame. I know the arcade is having some sort of event next Saturday, but I guess there’s nothing I can do…”

Richie took a deep breath. He had to say something. This was his mess, all of it, and he had to clean it up. He would just make something up, something like—

“It was my fault,” Beverly’s voice rang out. Richie spun in his seat to look at her. “Don’t blame any of the rest of them. I was bored and I wanted to distract them so I started messing around, but none of them wanted to play along. They tried to stop me, really. It’s just so lame here, and there’s nothing to do, with all of us just sitting quietly at our desks.”

“Really?” Mrs. Linder narrowed her eyes.

“Really,” Bev said, and if Richie didn’t know any better he swore he’d have believed her. She leaned back in her seat, yawned for extra effect. “This place sucks ass.”

And so Mrs. Linder left them again, with an added detention for Beverly next Saturday and a warning for all of the rest of them to stay in their seats and keep quiet.

They stayed in their seats, and they kept, for the most part, relatively quiet.

“Henry.” Everybody turned to look at Victor. He was pale, eyes trained on the floor. “Maybe we should just… drop it. You know, not mention anything about the kid.” He jerked his head towards Richie, still not looking at Henry. 

“Really, Vic?” Henry shot him a nasty look. “You going soft on me?”

“No,” Victor said quickly. “No. Just, it seems like maybe it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I’m not getting shown up by a bunch of fucking loser preteens,” Henry sneered.

“We’re thirteen,” Richie said before he could help himself, but Eddie kicked him in the shin and he made an effort to look properly chagrined. “He’s right, we could just— just forget any of this ever happened. You don’t mention the stuff you heard, we don’t mention that you got beat up by a bunch of losers. Quid pro quo. You go back to spitting at us in the halls and stuff, and balance is restored to the galaxy, etcetera, etcetera.”

“I didn’t get beat up,” Henry said. “You didn’t beat me up. We got stopped halfway through.”

“Of course, of course.” Richie conceded the point. “I’m just saying, it seems beneficial to everybody that all of our home stuff stays at home, yeah? Even more for you than me. I don’t really have much of a reputation to ruin at this point.” It was a lie, of course, and a gamble, but it worked.

Henry didn’t respond. He looked like he wanted to several times, but he didn’t, and Richie took that as an agreement. 

At 6:00, after an impossibly long silence, during which most of them returned to their homework and Richie stewed in his thoughts, the bell rang, and Mrs. Linder released them from their torture.

Henry high-tailed it out of there, Victor not far behind, and the others walked in a group to the bike rack outside. 

“Bev,” Richie called, before any of them could leave. “You didn’t have to… you shouldn’t have…”

“A “thank you” is enough,” she said. The bags under her eyes were showing, and her split lip was red, but she smiled wearily.

“Thank you, and thank you, and thank you. For all of it.”

She nodded. She was the first to leave, riding away back home, and Richie couldn’t help but imagine what was greeting her there. The others mounted their bikes, too, after an awkward goodbye full of half-hugs and “sorry”s, and “it’s not your fault”s.

Eddie lingered, like Richie knew he would, until the others were gone. “Richie,” he started, looking absolutely miserable.

“Eddie, I love you. You are important to me. You are everything to me. I’m an asshole.”

“No, you’re not, that was so mean and I didn’t mean it at all, and I can’t believe I didn’t understand, and I’m such an idiot, why am I such an idiot—“

“Eddie, I love you,” Richie repeated. “And you’re right. About everything. Always. Granted, you probably shouldn’t have monologued about my life in front of our worst enemy, but that didn’t make you any less right. I want to tell you everything. I really do. I’m working on it, but it’s really hard, sometimes. I don’t know how to just say, out of nowhere, “oh, yeah, my parents didn’t realize I was gone all night last Saturday at Bill’s, or, if they did, they didn’t give a shit”. You know? I don’t want people to just feel sorry for me. It doesn’t help, and it just makes me feel more like shit. But you’re my… you’re mine. And I want to tell you, so I’m trying. Okay?” He took Eddie’s hands in his own, squeezed them like he had earlier, facing Henry. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie said, nodded, and blinked those solemn, large, watery eyes of his. “I’m sorry. Really.”

“I know. But, honestly, what’s the worst that could happen? Henry Bowers goes and tells the whole 9th grade we’re gay and I’m a fuck-up? Must be Tuesday.”

Eddie laughed, a sniffling, indulgent, right-on-the-verge-of-tears laugh. “You know, you were pretty badass, jumping on Henry like that. I can’t believe you actually punched him.”

“Dude, you choked him out! You’re the real MVP here.”

“Well, I think that’s probably Bev.”

“Definitely Bev,” Richie agreed. “Jesus, she took a detention for us. I feel like such a prick for not doing it myself.”

“Me too,” Eddie said. “But maybe we’re all each others’ responsibilities, you know? Maybe we all have to look out for each other.”

“Sounds about right,” Richie said. He slowly let Eddie’s hands go, reached for his bike, but paused before taking it. “You know, I think I like being your responsibility.”

“I know,” Eddie said.

“It’s nice to think that someone worries.”

“I know,” Eddie said.

“I love you.”

“I know,” Eddie said. 


	43. My River Runs to Thee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry i've gone so long without posting! i got sick for a few days there on top of a hectic schedule, but all the while i was working on this chapter for you all! it just took a little longer than expected. but, here you go <3

Richie picked up the phone and punched in Bill’s number.

“Billy boy!” He started in as soon as Bill picked up the phone. “My chum! My pal! My bosom buddy!”

“W-what do you want? It’s n-nine in the morning,” Bill said, his grogginess apparent even through the grumbling phone connection. “On a _S-Saturday._ Why are you a-a-awake?”

“We are going out tonight, just you and me, and also everyone else, but I called to invite you first because you’re my best friend— I mean, I already talked it over with Eds, of course, but other than him. So, anyways, I hope you’v been saving up that babysitting money, because we’re going out on the town to an Italian restaurant because we are mature fancy people that can do that sort of thing sometimes, and we are going to act perfectly civilized and stick our pinkies up when we eat our spaghetti, and all that jazz, and it’s gonna be wacky fun, and you’re in, right?”

Bill was silent on the other line for a moment. “It is w-w-way too early for this. You want to g-go to a fancy restaurant?”

“You know, Bill, you really are one of the great thinkers of this century, anyone ever tell you that? The way you pick up on things just like that, lickety-split—“

“Beep-beep, R-Richie,” Bill groaned. “Look, I c-can’t tonight. My parents are going o-out and I have to babysit G-Georgie.”

“Bring him along! We absolutely have to have you there.”

“I really can’t, I’m s-sorry. I wish I could. You go and have f-fun, though. Tell me how the p-pasta is.”

Next was Stan, who answered after four rings. 

“Richie, you know I can’t tonight.”

“Do I know that?”

“I’m gonna be on the other side of the state! All-weekend birding conference, remember? Seriously, do you ever listen to a word I say? I’ve been talking about this for, like, weeks.”

“Yeah, see, I’m hearing your words, but they are literally so boring I am forgetting them as I speak. Something about bats? Goats? Jeez, I just plain forget.”

“You’re such a dick. You know, I’m really excited about this.”

“You’re such a nerd. Okay, whatever, have fun butterfly-catching or whatever you said.”

Next was Bev, who said she could come but only if Richie could spot her the cash, since the lawn-mowing business was pretty slow in early October and she didn’t have a lot of dough at the moment. She promised she’d pay him back, and Richie took her word for it, although he didn’t really much mind if she did or not. He’d been saving up, and this was a worthwhile cause.

Ben was wary at first, but agreed after several minutes of Richie promising he had no ulterior motive, he wasn’t inviting them out to murder them, he just wanted a nice dinner with his friends, and to act, like, normal for once, whatever that means.

Mike sounded happy to get out of the house. “It’s harvest season,” he explained to Richie. “So Grandpa needs me to weed and take care of the animals and collect the vegetables. It’s been really busy around here; a night out would be nice.”

So Richie adorned himself in his finest attire, which was a long-sleeved button-up— it was getting a tad too cold for hawaiian shirts, to Richie’s immense displeasure— and a pair of jeans so dark black he figured they basically looked like they could be dress pants. Basically.

He was on his way out the door to their 7:00 reservation, when the phone rang. He picked it up in the kitchen, frowning. “Hi, yes, this is Patrick Swayze, and, before you ask, no, not that Patrick Swayze, I’m a different Patrick Swayze with the same name, but I’m also an actor. Life’s real tough for the other Swayzes of the world right now.”

“Richie?”

“Oh, hey, Mike. What’s up?”

“Look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t make it tonight. There’s something wrong with the pumpkins, and Grandpa needs me to stay and help out.”

“Aw, really? But I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“We saw each other yesterday, Richie. I wish I could come, but he really needs me right now, and we just need to get through this October. It’s hard this year because we can only afford one other farmhand so it’s only him and me and it’s getting harder for Grandpa to do the hard labor so that’s mostly my job, now, too, and—“

“It’s alright, you’re okay, don’t stress it. I’m sorry you can’t come, but don’t worry about it. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And give Old Man Hanlon a big kiss for me, huh?”

“I’m not gonna do that, but I’ll tell him you said hi. I’ll see you at the Barrens on Monday after school?”

“Absolutely. Now go, farm it up.”

Despite the interruption of the call, Richie still managed to get to the restaurant on time. He biked, of course, and wondered along the way if people were looking at him funny because he was biking in dress clothes, or because he was just a funny sort of guy. 

When he got there, everyone had arrived but Beverly, and were waiting around outside, looking sort of nervous to go in. Everybody, of course, being only Eddie and Ben in this circumstance.

“Where’s everybody else?” Eddie said. “Also, you biked here?”

“What, you think my parents were gonna drive me?” He rolled his eyes. “So, it turns out that everyone is busy except for us and Beverly, so we can downsize to a four-seater, if that’s how it works, which I guess would make things easier. I really haven’t orchestrated one of these things before, but that’s the point, right? Going out and really living life, like functioning humans.”

“Wait,” Ben said. He looked vaguely panicked. “It’s just you two, me, and Beverly?”

“Yup!” Richie clapped him on the back. “Looks like the universe is on your side today, Haystack.”

“No, no, I don’t think—“

“Beverly!” Eddie said, a little louder than necessary, and they all turned to see her saunter up.

Richie gawked. “Is that a new dress, darling? You look absolutely stunning, if I may say so myself.”

“You may,” she allowed, and smiled. “It’s not new, I just haven’t had very many places to wear it.” She smoothed out the skirt nervously, fingers gliding over the floral pattern.

“It looks really nice,” Ben said, quietly, sweetly, as was his way, and she smiled wider at that.

“Thanks. I like your shirt.” She gestured to his shirt, which was nothing special, and he blushed. “Is this all of us?”

“You know what they say,” Richie said. “Two’s company and three’s a crowd, but four is a goddamn par-tay!” He let out a whoop.

Eddie closed his eyes, looking about ready to burst. “”Functioning humans”, Richie. Remember “functioning humans”?”

“Oh, I think I read about one of those somewhere. I think it was in Ben’s book of mysteries and fantastical creatures.”

“Well, if this is it, I guess Ben is just gonna have to be my gallant date, then, right?” She smiled at him.

“I’m all yours.” He pulled open the door to the restaurant, smiling back. “Ladies first.” That smooth fucker.

They were seated at a lovely little table in the dim back corner of the restaurant, which was pretty much perfect in Richie’s opinion, and private enough to be conducive to his goal of eating spaghetti Lady and the Tramp style with Eddie. Eddie, unfortunately, when informed of this goal, said, “Absolutely not. Do you know how many germs that’ll transmit?”

“Eddie, my tongue has fully been in your mouth, I don’t see what the big problem is.”

“Ew!” Beverly hit him with her napkin. “Gross! Don’t say things like that.”

Richie swiveled in his seat to face her. “What, you got a problem with boys kissing?”

“I got a problem with the visual of your trashmouth being in contact with anyone else’s. I’m with Eddie. Think of the diseases!”

Richie didn’t even end up ordering spaghetti that he could do that with. He spent a considerable amount of time asking the waiter what each Italian word meant, and to “please describe the shape of the pasta, if you will”, until Eddie cut him off and ordered plates of rigatoni for the both of them.

“I don’t even like rigatoni,” Richie complained once the waiter left.

“Yes you do,” Eddie said. “Anyways, if you wanted something you should have ordered.”

“I was looking at the menu!”

“You were being a dick,” Beverly informed him.

“I am betrayed! Beguiled!” Richie moaned. “Haystack, you’re on my side, right?”

Ben cringed. “Just a little, tiny, bit of a dick.”

“Oh, great,” Richie collapsed back in his seat. “Now, not only am I a dick, I’m a small one, too!”

They all laughed, and as Richie laughed he watched the way Ben’s cheeks puffed up when he grinned and how Beverly brushed her hair out of her eyes when she looked at him and how they were looking at each other like there was no one else in the room.

They were served, and Richie found he did, in fact, like rigatoni. “You know me better than I know myself, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie caught himself. “Oh my god. Eddie Spaghetti. Eddie _Spaghetti. Eddie—_ “

“I get it!” Eddie smacked his hand from across the table. “Stop it.”

“Hey, Bev,” Ben was saying. “Have you read any Emily Dickinson?”

“Only a little,” she said. “Because I could not stop for Death, etcetera. She’s great. I wish I could have been friends with her.”

“Did you ever hear that one about the river?”

“No, how’s it go?”

“Oh, I don’t know if I remember it,” Ben blushed, but after a brief pause he miraculously seemed to recall it from the depths of his memory. “”My river runs to thee: / Blue sea, wilt welcome me? / My river waits reply. / Oh sea, look graciously! / I’ll fetch thee brooks / From spotted nooks,— / Say, sea, / Take me!””

He spoke it carefully, shaping each word like a piece of pottery, molding the form of the poem between his lips and treating each line with a gentle reverence. They all stopped to listen, and when he was done he looked around, just noticing.

“That was gorgeous,” Eddie said.

Beverly nodded. She was looking at Ben strangely. “I like short poems.”

He just shrugged slightly, and took a bite of his pasta to avoid replying.

“You should try writing some of your own,” Bev said. Richie knew what she was doing. She was testing the waters. “I like the way you read that one.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ben mumbled. “I’ve tried a few, but they’re not very good.”

Richie thought of the day outside the school supply store, sitting on the steps with Ben. Ben had ended up showing him the poem before he gave it to Beverly: it was scrawled on the back of a postcard in small, simple lines. Short but sweet. That was Ben in a nutshell. Richie looked at Beverly, and she was looking at Ben, and he knew what she was wondering. Ben had told Richie when he’d slipped it in her backpack. Bev hadn’t told Richie about it, which was curious. He was pretty sure she told him most everything. 

Or maybe she didn’t at all. Richie felt an odd coldness ripple through his chest.

The conversation got turned around from poetry to their English teacher to school to how stressed they all were, and then to sleepless nights.

“Sometimes, when I can’t sleep,” Beverly said. “I just listen to music and watch the stars all night long. If I stare long enough I swear I can see them move.”

“You can’t,” Ben said. “It’s imperceptible to the human eye.”

“I know, but it feels like I can,” she said.

Eddie nodded. “I do that, sometimes, but I never make it through the whole night. I get too tired. And all my music is soft and just helps me fall asleep. What kind of music do you listen to?”

“Lots of stuff,” she said. “Mostly, like, new wave stuff. Echo & The Bunnymen, New Order, The Cure. A lot of Depeche Mode. You ever get specific mental images from certain bands? Sometimes I’ll just listen to three Depeche Mode albums in a row and imagine I’m in a big empty warehouse surrounded by a bunch of hot punk guys, like, rattling chains and clanging pipes.”

“Okay, very weird and specific fantasy of yours for us to know about,” Richie said. “But I get that. George Michael makes me feel like I’m in a church. But, like, a sexy church.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “Really? I feel more like I’m in a classroom and maybe I’m a schoolgirl and he’s my professor or something and he’s in love with me but only on the down low.”

“Why are you a schoolgirl?” Bev laughed. “Why aren’t you a boy?”

“Well, George Michael’s straight,” Eddie said.

Richie sighed. “A boy can dream, Eds.” He fastened his gaze on Ben. “How ‘bout you, Haystack? What kinds of funky tunes do you fall asleep to?”

Ben blushed, and Beverly gave a knowing smile, which made Richie only want to know more. “What? It can’t be that bad. Bev just told us all about her weird warehouse fantasy.”

“It’s nothing like that!” He was redder than a ripe Fuji apple, and his cheeks even more pinch-able, but Richie stopped himself from leaning diagonally across the table just to further humiliate him. 

“Come on. I promise I won’t laugh.”

“Yes you will,” Ben muttered. “You always laugh.”

“Well, that’s true. But it’s never personal! Come on, come on, just tell me. What’s your guilty pleasure?”

Ben just shook his head vehemently, so Richie turned to Beverly. “Please, I’m dying here, you gotta let me and Eds in on this.”

She smirked. “My lips are sealed. This one’s between me and Haystack.” She glanced over at him, and the smirk widened into a real smile. They both laughed, and Richie didn’t know exactly what they were laughing about, but he didn’t really care. It was infectious, and soon they were all laughing.

The waiter seemed somewhat relieved when Eddie asked for the check. 

“So you can spot me the cash?” Beverly asked Richie. “I’m really sorry, swear I’ll pay it back soon, just give me a couple days to walk some dogs and join a newspaper guild or something. I’ll find a way.”

“‘Course, I know you’re good for it,” Richie said, and was about to pull out the extra cash, but Ben stopped him.

“I’ll cover it.”

“What? No, it’s fine, I can—“

“Really,” Ben said. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve got some extra cash this weekend from my parents, I’m practically swimming in it. What better to spend it on?”

Richie looked at Bev, and she shrugged. “Whatever. Thanks, Ben.”

They finally emerged out onto the darkened downtown Derry street, pockets lighter and stomachs considerably fuller. Eddie’s mom was already parked on the curb, waiting to take her son home— the apparent condition of letting him stay out for the dinner. Ben’s house was close enough to walk to, so he said his goodbyes, gaze lingering on Beverly for a moment, before walking the other way.

Richie and Bev mounted their bikes and started back off towards their houses. 

“Tonight was nice, huh?” Richie looked over at Bev. The night was dark, but passing streetlights sent flashes of white glancing off her cheeks and hair, illuminated her expression.

“Yeah. It was a really good idea, thanks for inviting me out,” she said. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking out, past the darkness, through to something Richie couldn’t see.

“You’re thinking about something,” he said. “What are you thinking about?”

She blinked, refocused on the road. “Nothing. I’m not thinking about anything.”

“You know, Bill is one of my best friends. I’ve known him pretty much my whole life.”

She turned, shot a frowning glance his way. “Bill?”

“Yeah. You know, he’s a really good person. He’s kept us together over the years, me and Eddie and Stan and him. He’s a better person than I’ll ever be, you know.”

Beverly was quiet.

“But, like, I’m not in love with him. I’m in love with Eddie.”

“I don’t know what this conversation is about.”

“Nothing. It’s not about anything. I’m just saying, I’ll never know if me and Bill would’ve worked, but it doesn’t really matter, because he’s just one of my best friends, and Eddie’s my… Eddie. And I don’t think Bill’s super hurt by that or anything.”

“Sometimes I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” She didn’t look at him.

“Sure.” The night was quiet and thick with things unsaid. “Just don’t break your own heart, Bev.”


	44. Johnny B. Goode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by one of several very sweet prompts left by "B)" : "the losers suggested earlier in the story that Eddie should call his uncle one of these times and I would absolutely love to see that conversation."
> 
> to the same commenter: i also listened to the song vienna and i love it and the way it applies to the story and characters! thank you for the recommendation. i love billy joel. it was hard picking from the songs on the innocent man album to find just 1 for this playlist!

When the phone rang, Richie’s lips were pressed on Eddie’s, and Back to the Future was playing, neglected, on Eddie’s TV. Eddie stared to pull away, reach out for it, but Richie let out a whining noise. “Leave it.”

“What if it’s important?” Eddie wavered, torn between the flavor of Richie’s watermelon chapstick and the insistent, intrusive ringing of the phone.

“It’s not.”

“What if it’s the doctor?”

Richie pulled away, groaning, and settled back into the couch. “Fine, fine, just answer it. Quick. We’re getting to the good part.”

Eddie went red. “Wh— I—“

Richie gestured to the screen. “In the movie, dummy. Marty is about to introduce the world to Johnny B. Goode.”

“Oh, you mean the part where they pretend a white guy made up one of the most iconic songs written by a black person? Yeah, this part’s great.”

“Are you gonna answer the damn phone or not?” 

Eddie did, and first frowned. “Hello? Yes, it is. Who is this?” His eyes widened. “Oh! Oh my gosh, hi! I didn’t know you were gonna—“

Richie prodded Eddie’s ribs with a foot. “Who is it?”

Eddie waved him off. “Yes, yeah, I’ve been good. How are you?”

“Who is it?” Richie jabbed him a bit harder. “Is it your other boyfriend?”

Eddie hit his foot away and plugged his other ear with a finger. “That’s really awesome. Yeah, actually, he’s here right now. Yeah, we were watching a movie. Back to the Future. Yes. Right? I know. Yeah. Oh, really?”

“Oh, come on, man!” Richie pulled himself to sitting, now thoroughly annoyed, and set on making Eddie recognize his presence. “You can’t just have a full phone conversation in the middle of our date.”

“Sure, you can talk to him, _Uncle Wilbur_ ,” Eddie said, making pointed eye contact with Richie. “Here you go.” He held the phone out.

“Oh,” Richie mouthed. “Sorry.” He paused the movie, then took the phone and held it gingerly up to his ear. “Uh, hi… Mr. Rinker?”

“Wilbur, please,” came the voice from the other end, youthful and delicate for his years. “It’s lovely to talk to you, Richie.”

“You too,” Richie said. Eddie was looking at him with a fearful intensity, and an expression that he knew well enough. It was the “keep your big mouth shut, Richie, I’m warning you,” look, and this time he intended to oblige. “How’s the Big Apple?”

“Endlessly tiring. I don’t actually live in the city, though, I’m about 45 minutes away. I do visit fairly often, though, for shows and exhibits.”

“How intellectual,” Richie said, avoiding Eddie’s expression as the boy tried to figure out what they were talking about from only half of the conversation. “It’s nice of you to call Eddie. Do you two talk a lot?”

“Not as much as I’d like to; work keeps me pretty busy out here. Hey, Eddie tells me you like Shakespeare.”

“Like him? I love him! I’m the guy’s number one fan. I’d marry him if I could— really, I’ve thought about this. I’d get a time travel machine and— ow!” Richie recoiled from Eddie’s kick to the shin, their legs tangled together on the couch. “Yeah, yeah, I love Shakespeare. You do too?”

“I do,” Wilbur said. “I was actually calling because a friend of mine in the city just contacted me about a show he’s starring in in a few weeks. He was trying to spread the word, promote ticket sales, and, well, I thought you and Eddie might be interested in coming to see it. It’s Romeo and Juliet. …Hello? Richie, are you still there?”

Richie was staring at Eddie, jaw dropped, unable to form a coherent thought. “I— wh— no, I mean, we—“

“I could provide for transportation, of course, and you could make a weekend of it, stay with me for a few days. That is, of course, if your parents are alright with it. I know it’s a big trip. They could always come along, if they’d like.”

“My parents wouldn’t mind,” Richie found himself saying. “But I—“

“And I could pay for the ticket sales. It might make a nice birthday present for you, a trip out, away from Derry…”

“Wait, what?” Richie’s mind snapped back to him. “How do you know when my birthday is?”

“Well, Eddie told me.”

“Eddie told you?” Richie stared at Eddie, a frown settling between his eyebrows. Eddie was suddenly invested in looking anywhere but at Richie. “What else did he tell you?”

“Oh, nothing much, rest assured. He just happened to mention your birthday and that you might not be doing anything because of your parents, and we got to brainstorming things you might like to do. I’m sorry if I’ve ruined some sort of surprise. Did I spoil something?”

“No.” Richie gritted his teeth. “ _You_ didn’t spoil anything. Thank you so much, Wilbur, but I’ll have to check my calendar. I don’t know if I’m free.”

“Sure, of course, I—“

“I’ll tell Eddie to call you back.” And with that, Richie leaned across Eddie and hung up the phone.

It was quiet for a moment. Eddie fidgeted with his sleeve, glanced over at him but didn’t quite look him in the eyes. “What did—“

“You told him about my parents?”

Eddie tugged on the stitches on his sleeve. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Like, you have amnesia? Or you just say words without understanding what they mean?”

“Yes, I told him. Stop being mean.”

Richie scowled, tugged his limbs away from Eddie, pressing into the opposite side of the couch. “I’m being mean? You’re the one that went behind my back and told my private, personal shit to someone I barely know—“

“Oh, come on, it’s not like he’s some stranger, he’s Uncle Wilbur.”

“I’ve met him once!”

“Look, I trust him. It wasn’t like I meant to tell him your secrets or anything, it just came out, and anyways, I was trying to be nice, to find something to do for your birthday.”

“Right, ‘cause you’d **never** talk about my parents in front of people we don’t trust.”

Eddie finally looked up. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is that I keep trusting you with all these things and you keep telling people! Henry Bowers knows, Vic Criss knows, thanks to you all our friends know too, and now your uncle? Who the fuck else have you told about my shitty home life?”

“Okay, I messed up! I’m sorry! I know I messed up with Henry and Victor, you don’t have to keep rubbing it in my face. Like you’ve never said something you didn’t mean to before.” 

“Oh, right, because I’m the trashmouth,” Richie spat. “No, I haven’t spilled my best friends’ secrets. I know shit about you. And I know shit about Bev and Ben and pretty much everyone, and they tell me because I’m fucking trustworthy. Why do you think they haven’t told you?”

It was a low blow, and Richie regretted it the moment he said it, the moment that Eddie recoiled like his words were blows, flinched away. But he didn’t apologize. He was sorry, but Eddie should be sorrier, and he wasn’t apologizing until Eddie did, for real.

“I don’t think you should be mad about this,” Eddie said quietly. “I don’t think it’s fair. I’m allowed to talk to my uncle about stuff. You know he’s the only person, other than you and the Losers, that I can tell things? I’ve lived in this house for so long, keeping my entire life, everything I think, secret, because I knew if mom found out she’d hate me. And now I finally have someone to talk to about the things that make me happy or stressed or upset— and yeah, that includes your parents. It freaks me out, okay? I don’t know what to do to help you. I’m trying, but I don’t know how to handle it on my own. So I told Uncle Wilbur, and he talked to me about it, and I don’t think it’s right for you to be so angry about that.”

Richie drew a long breath. Calm, he told himself. Calm down. He’s Eddie. You love him. He’s telling you he’s upset, that you’re making him upset, and you’re hurting him right now by getting so mad, and you should listen to him. You should comfort him. “You know who the people are that I can tell things?” He asked instead. “I can count them on one hand. I’m so sorry that you only have one person outside of the Losers to talk to when you get upset about having to deal with my scary life, but I have no one. I have no one. I don’t even talk to the others about this, and they’re my best friends. I only talk to you. I only have you. And… do I?” He looked away. Calm. Stay calm. You’re a boat on the ocean. You’re a dandelion seed on the goddamn wind. “You know, it’s my life. You know how scary it is for you? To think I’m not being taken care of or whatever? I’m the one who’s living this. I’m the one who skips meals, whose parents are probably gonna forget his fourteenth birthday. And I don’t tell people about it because I don’t want them to— to pity me, to treat me like some kind of a charity case, like I can’t deal with this on my own.”

“You can’t,” Eddie whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But you can’t. And I can’t. And you shouldn’t have to.”

“It’s not your job,” Richie said. A blur was invading his vision; he blinked it away and it dripped down onto the couch. “Maybe you can’t fix me. Maybe you can’t make me happy all the time.”

“I’m not trying to make you happy all the time, Richie.” It was stranger, to hear his name so tenderly on Eddie’s tongue in the middle of all of this. “I’m trying to make you happy sometimes. I’m trying to give you a nice weekend, a nice birthday. And I’m sorry, I really am, for telling people. I wouldn’t want you telling just anyone about my mom. I just wish… I wish you’d talk to him about it. Uncle Wilbur. He said you said to him, when you guys met back in August, that it was nice to have a grown-up on our side.”

Richie nodded. 

“It is. It really is. And I want him on our side, not just mine. We need someone. At least, I do. Don’t you think you do, too?”

I don’t need anyone, Richie thought. I don’t need you or your stupid lies or your stupid face or your stupid uncle, and I’m just gonna run away to Venice and make it on my own and never see any of you again and never come back to this hellhole, and maybe you’ll hear of me in ten years because I’ll be rich and famous and you be sorry that you said I ever needed anyone.

“Richie?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“I’m sorry.” And then Eddie was hugging him and Richie was letting him and their limbs were tangled up again and Richie wanted to go back thirty seconds in time and punch himself for ever thinking he could live without Eddie, and then ten minutes back so he could punch himself again for starting this thing in the first place. 

“I’m sorry I got angry,” Richie said. “I just don’t like talking about it.”

“I know.”

“I want to go to New York with you and see Romeo and Juliet and stay at your uncle’s place, I want to really bad. It sounds like a dream. Could it really happen?”

“I think so,” Eddie voice was muffled in Richie’s shoulder. “It had better, because I want to too. Nevermind that New York City is probably the most germ-ridden, grossest place on Earth. Let’s do it.”

“Let’s do it,” Richie agreed, and didn’t let Eddie go, even though they’d been hugging for a while now. “It was your idea, wasn’t it? Romeo and Juliet?”

“Uncle Wilbur really does have a friend that’s in it.”

“Yeah, but it was your idea.”

“Yeah.”

Richie held him tighter. “Never let me lose you. Please. Even if I’m shitty and getting upset about all the wrong things and playing out the same arguments over and over, even if we get in a million fights and I tell you I hate you and you tell me you’re an asshole. Don’t let me leave you. You’re the best thing I’ve ever done with my life. Don’t let me screw it up.”

“I’ll try,” Eddie said. “And anyways, you’re not an asshole. I’m kind of an asshole sometimes.” He paused. “Do people not trust me?”

“No, that was bullshit. Sorry.” Richie pulled away. “Seriously. I trust you with my life. Everyone knows that you’re one of the most responsible ones of all of us. Really, if I had to be stranded on a desert island with one person…”

Eddie pulled away, laughing, hiccuping. “It should be Bill.”

“That guy?” Richie waved him off. “No way. He’d throw me off the island in five minutes flat. He can’t handle my awesome.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” 

They both laughed, but it was somewhat more subdued than usual. 

“We okay?” Richie bit his lip, gazed at Eddie. 

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. We’re okay. I just feel bad about all of this. I should have talked to you about it before I told him.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay.” Richie settled back into the couch. “He is pretty nice. Just run it by me first next time.”

“I promise I will.” Eddie sat nervously near him, left a strange amount of space between their bodies: not exactly far apart, but careful not to touch, either.

“You wanna watch Michael J. Fox fake his way through a sick guitar riff or not?” Richie took the remote and scooched over so his side was resting against Eddie’s.

“Always,” Eddie said, and relaxed into him.


	45. Blink

“Okay, just give me one more example now of a difference between animal and plant cells,” Stan said. He blinked hard down at the sheet, then back up at Richie, who had his head down on a small spot of Stan’s dining room table that wasn’t covered in papers from their homework.

“I already gave you three examples,” Richie groaned into the table. Sitting like this, if he opened his eyes he could see the individual tiny threads woven together to make Stan’s blue and white floral tablecloth. “Do you know how to sew?”

“A little. Just give me one more. It’s something about the vacuoles…” Stan drummed his fingers impatiently across the table, and the sound pounded into Richie’s forehead. 

“You know, I don’t think Jesus died so I could spend my Sunday afternoons talking about _plant cells_.” Richie lifted his head to get away from the drumming sound, and pushed his flop of hair out of his eyes to peer at Stan.

“You could have just done your homework on Friday after school instead of saving it until the last minute,” Stan said, accentuating it with a hard, almost wincing, blink. “And I think I’m the wrong person to talk to about Jesus.”

“Hey, you’re doing it more.” Richie sat up straighter. 

“What?” Stan snapped the book shut with a petulant sigh. 

“The blinking. Do you notice?”

Stan shifted, put the book down. He clasped his hands on the table and stared down at them, blinked hard twice. “I don’t always notice. Sometimes it just happens.”

“Are you doing other stuff too?” Richie chewed on the inside of his lip. “Like the scratching thing or anything?”

“No,” Stan said, voice brittle, and shot Richie a sour gaze. “I’m not doing “the scratching thing”.”

Richie raised his hands in the air. “Hey, don’t get sulky on me, alright? I’m just trying to help. I know that last time…”

“It’s not last time,” Stan said. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again a moment later, barely even a blink anymore. “It’s not—“ He shut his mouth, nostrils flaring as he exhaled. “I’m okay.”

Last time had been around New Year’s of last year, when the Losers had first become aware of the extent of his anxiety and compulsive behavior. He had broken down at a sleepover because Bill’s movies were all out of order on the shelf. Stan kept fussing around with them, getting more and more frustrated as Bill told him to leave it be, until he finally snapped and shouted at Bill, and Eddie had noticed the scratches on his arms.

It wasn’t because of the movies, of course. “He just wants so much from me,” Stan had sobbed, sitting in the middle of the couch. They were all clustered on the ends. They knew how he was about personal space. Richie didn’t know what to do, none of them did. Stan never cried in front of them. The moment was made more uncertain and scary by the red marks up and down Stan’s arms. “I don’t even realize I’m doing it most of the time. I just get so frustrated, and nothing’s the way it’s supposed to be, and it’s just these little stupid things— like, like sometimes at night I’ll get this thought in my head, that maybe my parents didn’t lock the front door that night, and I’ll tell myself that’s stupid, of course they did, but then I’ll keep thinking about it and I won’t be able to sleep until I go downstairs and check for myself, and sometimes I’ll unlock the door and then lock it again, three times, and only then will I be able to go back upstairs and sleep. Or with ticks, I’ll think about it and then get really freaked out and just know there’s a tick on my head, and so I’ll check all over and sometimes I’ll make Mom check for me just so I can be sure, but I still feel it. And it doesn’t happen all the time but it does, sometimes, like when Dad gets mad at me because I got a bad grade, or like today when I messed up in Torah portion practice, and then it won’t stop and I’ll just start thinking these things over and over.”

He was shaking, fists curled tight, pressing against his knees, whole body stiff and tense. 

Eddie had looked at Richie, and Richie had looked at Bill. Bill scooted towards Stan uncertainly. “Y-you shouldn’t hurt yourself.”

“I don’t mean to, I promise,” Stan said. He didn’t look at any of them. “I promise. It’s so _stupid_. I can’t even help myself. I’ll be scratching my arms, or— or doing this blinking thing, where I just blink harder and harder and sometimes just squeeze my eyes tight and hold my breath for as long as I can, and I’ll be thinking the whole time, this is so dumb, what are you doing, what’s the point of this, just stop, but I can’t. I just can’t.”

Bill moved so he was right next to Stan, carefully put a hand on Stan’s fist. Stan flinched away at first, then looked up at Bill and relaxed, his hand uncurling a little. “It’s o-o-okay. I can’t help it either. My st-stutter.” He offered a sad smile. 

“It just makes me feel crazy. I never talk about it, like if I don’t say anything maybe it’ll just stop happening one day. You know, sometimes it won’t happen, or at least I won’t notice it, for days, or weeks. And then something will happen, some sort of fight, and I’ll get set off again.”

“You’re not c-crazy.”

“But—“

“You’re not c-crazy.”

After that, by their insistence, Stan began to tell them when he was feeling what he called his “urges”, and they would talk him through it. They didn’t always know exactly what to say to help, but slowly the scratch marks on his arm faded and everything went back to normal, if they ever were normal. Maybe all of it was easier because none of them ever were.

Now, sitting across from Stan at his dining room table, Richie scrutinized Stan’s expression.

“Richie, really. I’m okay.”

“You get in a fight with your old man again?”

Stan paused, and kneaded his fingers together. “Okay, yes, I did. But I’m handling it.”

“Okay.” Richie nodded. “Then you’re handling it. That’s good.” He adjusted his glasses. “You know you can talk to me.”

“Yes, Richie, I know.”

“Yeah, but, like, really. I know I’m the asshole or whatever and I make fun of you a lot but that’s just ‘cause you’re a huge nerd and also I love you.”

Stan looked up at him. He blinked, and it was a normal, light, fluttery blink. “Okay.”

Richie laughed. “”Okay”? You’re so weird. “Okay”. Whatever happened to “I love you too”?”

Stan snorted, gave a little roll of his eyes. “I’m not the weird one here. You’re the one getting all sappy; I’m just trying to teach you about plant cells.”

“I am wounded,” Richie said, collapsing dramatically onto the table. “I am undone. Not so much as one tender word, one display of affection. How I am scorned!”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Kicked to the curb! Slapped in the face! Rejected by my dearest companion!”

“This is why no one likes you.”

“Stabbed 23 times by my senators!”

“Oh, so you remember _that_ , but not—“

“ _You’re killing me here you are literally stabbing me and killing me—_ **“**

“That’s not what the word literally means!”

“ _I will stop if you say you love me back but until then I am wounded, I am dying, I am bleeding to death on your beautiful tablecloth—_ **“**

“Oh my god, Richie, fine! I love you! You’re a good friend and I can’t believe you actually noticed that I’m feeling bad but thank you! Are you stopping? Are you done?”

Richie straightened, smug grin on his face. “And that’s a new technique I like to call Aggressive Affection. More details are outlined in my four-part tape set, on sale now for only $299.99.”

Stan groaned. “Why do I know you?”

“Because Bill likes to adopt stray losers.”

“Why do I still hang out with you, then?”

“Because you’re almost as big of a loser as I am and nobody else would take you.” Richie flashed his not-so-pearly whites.

“Oh, right, that’s it.” 


	46. <Interlude>

hey, this is zoe! the author. that chick.

i just wanted to say that this has been one of the most amazing experiences ever. i started writing this in late september because It (the book) has been my absolute favorite novel for years and i had just seen It (the movie) and really really loved it, and felt inspired to start a fic based on it. i didn't know where i was going with this story, and didn't really assume that many people would read or even see it, but then... this happened. almost 2 months and 74,000 words later, i have hundreds of comments from people saying they not only read but enjoyed my work!!! you all are really the reason why i am still doing this. i read every single comment, and although i can't reply to all of them, i hope you know that i appreciate each one individually and you brighten every day and make me smile. <3

so, this is obviously not a chapter, and you're probably wondering why i'm writing this instead of sticking it up in the author's notes and giving you a bit of the story-- don't worry, you'll have a new chapter tomorrow! but today i thought i'd give you something different.

i'm a songwriter. i've been playing piano for 12 years and singing since i was a tiny baby, and although i'm still a tiny baby now at age sixteen, for some reason people have decided they like my music and i now have a [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCSSmDOcHXiyjibPsqtaWKYQ) and [Bandcamp](https://zoegray.bandcamp.com/) and [Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/zoegray) where i get to release my songs and get supported and paid and all that jazz. 

i write about nerdy stuff and queer stuff and my life and pretty much anything that inspires me, and this story happened to hella inspire me, so i went ahead and wrote a dang song about it. the song is called New Way and it's from Richie's POV and i figured i'd go out on a limb and post it here in case any of you are interested in listening. i'm also gonna post the lyrics below for anyone who just wants to read those. 

i hope you enjoy! you all really warm my heart, thanks for everything.

Here's the song: <https://youtu.be/U4eF74d5nEk>

[Lyrics]

I’m pedaling to race you home

I’m hoping that you’ll win

That look you get reminds me of

This mess that we are in

And every day

I find a new way

And every day

We'll find a new way

 

I’m pushing through the underbrush

I’m rushing through my dreams

To find you standing barefoot

In the middle of the stream

And every day

I find a new way

And every day

We'll find a new way

 

And everywhere I look there’s people

Watching and there’s no sure footing

Nowhere to stand

And everywhere I go I keep you

With me and when you get frightened

I’ll take your hand

 

I never thought that I would have

Somebody so alive so I won’t

Let you slip away

I never thought that you could love me

God, look what you do, you’re lovely

We’ll find a new way

 

I’m laughing when you look my way

I wonder what you see

I never feel so special as when

You look at me

And every day

I'll find a new way

And needless to say

We’ll find a new way

 

I love you in the evening

In the fading purple light

I found you in the stillness

Of the middle of the night

And every day 

I find a new way

And every day

We find a new way

 

And everywhere I look there’s people

Watching and there’s no sure footing

Nowhere to stand

And everywhere I go I keep you

With me and when you get frightened

I’ll take your hand

 

I never thought that I would have

Somebody so alive so I won’t

Let you slip away

I never thought that you could love me

God, look what you do, you’re lovely

We’ll find a new way

 

And in my dreams of words unspoken

And in my dreams I’m not so broken

It feels sometimes like all the world

Is tearing us apart

It feels sometimes we’re destined to 

Go break each others’ hearts

 

And everywhere I look there’s people

Watching and there’s no sure footing

Nowhere to stand

And everywhere I go I keep you

With me and when you get frightened

I’ll take your hand

 

I never thought that dreams were real

I never thought that I could feel

So happy and so sad

I never thought that I was good

But, god, with you I think I could be

Or we’ll both be bad

I never thought that I would have

Somebody so alive so I won’t

Let you slip away

I never thought that you could love me

God, look what you do, you’re lovely

I’ll find a new way

We’ll find a new way

We’ll find a new way


	47. Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's an extra-long birthday chapter to make up for the fact that i haven't posted in a few days! <3

On the night before his 14th birthday, Richie did something he pretty much never did: he packed ahead of time.

In two days, Mrs. Kaspbrak would be picking him up at noon and driving him and Eddie seven hours to New York, where they would stay at Uncle Wilbur’s apartment and then see Romeo and Juliet in the city the next morning. How exactly Eddie convinced his mom to make this miraculous trip, Richie didn’t know. Eddie had said something about a musical called Cats, and shared his own opinion that his mother wanted to make amends with her brother after the slight disaster that was the summer. She would not, fortunately, be attending Romeo and Juliet with them, but still, Richie could hardly be upset at the prospect of a long trip in a car with her, because, well, he was going to New York. This was his dream. One of them, at least. He had a lot of dreams.

They would be making a long weekend of it, skipping the second half of school Friday and getting to Wilbur’s place that evening, seeing the shop the next day. He wasn’t sure what all they would be doing for the rest of Saturday, but Wilbur seemed to have some plans, or at least vague ideas, and the surprise of it thrilled Richie. Sunday they would be returning home, hopefully with a large array of stories and anecdotes about the City That Never Sleeps. 

Richie thought the rest of the Losers were pretty jealous, from the way they had responded when he’d told them. He couldn’t spare much pity for them, though. Bill and Stan had both been on trips out of the country since he’d known them, and Ben used to live in a whole different state. Richie never ever got out of Derry, and this was his chance, if only for a weekend.

Still, nothing was gonna tear the Losers apart on Richie’s real birthday. Bill told Richie to meet them at the Barrens after school, and they would come bearing gifts and a fun surprise or two.

None of the Losers generally had much money to spend on each others’ birthdays, especially now that there were seven of those a year. Small gifts were the norm, or sometimes just hand-made items or “experiences”, like when they had organized a scavenger hunt all around Derry for Bill two years ago. Richie would be the fifth one to turn fourteen; Bill and Stan’s birthdays had both passed this summer when Eddie was away, the first ones that they had spent separate since the beginning of their friendship so many years ago. Richie hadn’t written Eddie about it in the hopes of sparing his feelings, but he knew how upset Eddie was. Beverly was a bit older than the rest of them, her birthday back in July. She hadn’t told them about it until weeks after the fact. She didn’t like parties, she’d said. And Mike, the oldest of all of them, had been fourteen since last April.

When Richie woke up on the morning of his fourteenth birthday, he didn’t open his eyes. Not right away. Instead he laid there, very still, and catalogued his body, piece by piece. He started at his toes, wiggling them— they felt the same. Then to his calves, which he clenched and unclenched. All the way up to his neck and his tongue and finally his eyes, which he opened. He didn’t feel different, not at all. It was a shame. Fourteen seemed like such a milestone. He’d been in high school for around two months now, but now he was actually high school aged. Fourteen. 

He finally sat up, rubbed his eyes, yawned. His fully packed suitcase was propped against the wall. He knew he was forgetting something, but he wasn’t leaving until tomorrow, anyways. He’d ask Eddie. Eddie definitely had some sort of list with bullet points or check boxes or something like that, and Richie would remember he’d forgotten socks, and Eddie would roll his eyes, and everything would be fine.

Richie paused. He’d packed socks, right? He opened the suitcase and double-checked, just to be sure. The socks were there.

He got dressed and grabbed his school stuff, headed downstairs to grab breakfast. His mother was downstairs at the kitchen table in her old purple bathrobe, holding a cup of coffee, staring into space. There was a plate of pancakes on the table in front of her.

Richie blinked. “Um, hi, mom.” 

She snapped out of it, turned to look at him. Smiled. “Hi, honey.”

“What’s, uh, going on?” He stood awkwardly in front of the table, backpack slung over one shoulder. She never woke up this early. And she definitely never made **pancakes.**

“It’s your birthday. Didn’t you remember? Come on, sit down, I made breakfast for you. Have you got time before school?”

Richie stared at her, then the pancakes, then back at her. Finally, he pulled a chair out and sat down, dropped his backpack to the floor. “A little, I guess.”

“I can’t believe you forgot your own birthday,” she said, putting two pancakes on a plate and pushing it over to him, along with a little plate of butter and a jar of syrup. “Fourteen is a big deal, you know.”

Richie didn’t say that, no, I’m not surprised because I forgot, I’m surprised because I figured you would, and also what are you doing, what’s going on, this is weird, are we pretending this isn’t weird? Instead, he said, “Yeah, totally.”

“Your friend Eddie’s mom called me to say you’re going out of town this weekend,” she said. She didn’t look terribly perturbed. 

“I asked you about that last week. We’re going to see a show in New York, remember?”

“Right, of course. What show?” 

This was weird. This was so weird. Richie took a bite of pancake, pancake that his mother had prepared for him on his birthday, as she asked him about his plans. This was really freaking weird. “Uh, it’s Romeo and Juliet. His uncle has a friend who’s in it.”

“Really?” She smiled broadly. She seemed a little hazy, a little out of it. Richie wondered if she’d already been drinking, or if she was just tired, or if this was just how she was. He hadn’t had a sober actual conversation with her in a long time. “You know, Romeo and Juliet used to be one of my favorite stories. I have this old book of Shakespeare plays that Alice used to read to me when I was little. I read Romeo and Juliet over and over. I liked it almost as much as A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But that one has fairies. Fairies are my favorite.”

“I know,” Richie said. “You gave me that book, remember? It’s in my room. We read it together that one night.”

He was greeted with a blank expression. “Are you sure? I don’t remember that.”

Richie ate another bite of pancake. It was sticky sweet. “Mom, I didn’t know your sister gave you that book. What was her favorite play?”

She turned away. “She would have loved to see you grow up. You know, when we were little we used to play a game. We’d imagine what our kids would be like when they were our ages. We always assumed we’d have daughters. I was going to name mine Elizabeth, and she was going to be beautiful. On her fourteenth birthday, I would dress her up in a beautiful pink ruffled dress and take her dancing. That was Alice’s idea.”

Richie poked at his pancake. He wasn’t hungry anymore. He cleared his throat. “You know, if you ever wanted to—“

“I shouldn’t keep you,” his mom said, pushing away from the table and standing. “Go, catch your bus, have a nice day at school.”

Richie stood, limbs wooden, voice hollow. “Thanks for the pancakes. I’ll see you later.”

On the ride to school, Richie reminded himself that it was his birthday, and he was fourteen now, and wasn’t that awesome. Ponyboy was fourteen in The Outsiders, and he had to deal with a lot more than Richie. What had even happened, anyways? His mom had made him pancakes. And talked to him. And, for that, he was upset. This is, he thought, why I can’t have nice things.

Eddie was the first person to see him at school, encountering him before he even entered the building. Eddie was waiting at the bike rack when Richie rolled up, and his anticipatory smile was wiped away when he saw the look on Richie’s face.

“What is it?” Eddie asked. “Is it ‘cause you’re a year closer to death now?” He searched for a smile.

“Nothing, I’m fine. Just worried that, in my imminent old age, my heart might give out in the middle of a bang sesh with your mom,” Richie said. It was an instinct. It’s what he’d been doing his whole life, moving on, pedaling forwards.

But Eddie didn’t smile, and found none in return on Richie’s face, and Richie remembered that he was trying that thing called not being an asshole.

“My mom,” he said. “She was up this morning. Wished me a happy birthday. Or— well, I don’t think she ever actually said the words “happy birthday”. Made me pancakes. It was weird and sort of bad. Can we not talk about it?”

Eddie, to his credit, took it in stride. “Want me to talk?”

Richie nodded.

“Okay. So, about our trip tomorrow. I’m warning you right now, Mom’s gonna want to listen to Barry Manilow pretty much the whole car ride— she’s got, like, seven albums on tape— but I think I might be able to convince her if you bring a mixtape to let us listen to it, but it has to be appropriate, which basically means nothing too punk or gay, like Phil Collins in probably alright and a definite green light on Cher, but if you put one Culture Club song on there she’ll veto the whole album. Also, I was thinking…”

Richie let the words wash over him and tide him over until his first class, and then devoted most of lunch time playing a game that all of them hated, which Stan entitled “Richie Tries To Guess What We’re Getting Him For His Birthday Even Though That Would Ruin The Surprise But It’s Okay Because All His Guesses Are Shit Anyways”. By the time school let out, he had forgotten all about his mom, mostly due to Eddie’s constant stream of dialogue and mentions of the trip, which he knew would perk Richie up.

After the school bell rang, Richie, as instructed, biked over to the Barrens. Most of the others weren’t far behind, but some of them had to stay back and do last-minute gift wrapping, apparently, so it was nearing 4:00 by Eddie’s watch when Mike, the last of them, finally arrived.

“Mikey!” Richie applauded him, gestured for the boy to sit down in the circle on the sparse grass they had made, under the shade of the tree a little farther from the stream. “Finally, we can get this party started.” He looks to Bill.

“Don’t l-look at me,” Bill said, and gestured Richie’s attention back to Mike, who was reaching his arms into a medium-sized cardboard box he had brought with him.

What Mike drew out from the box and placed in the center of the circle was a large chocolate cake, decorated with an ocean of smooth brown icing upon which was lettered in looping purple, “Happy birthday Richie!” But, for all of its beauty and, if Richie’s nose was to be believed, evident tastiness, there was something clumsy to the cake, something rough.

Richie’s jaw dropped. “No. No way. You did **not** bake me a cake.”

Mike planted a candle in the center. “Sorry, I only had one candle, not fourteen. But…” He looked up, blushed at Richie’s adoring gaze. “Hope you like it.”

“Like it? Like it!? Mikey, baby, you’re a superstar!” Richie gaped at him.

“Hold up,” Bev said, and pulled a matchbook out of her back pocket, struck one up and delicately lit the candle. “We gotta sing.”

They sang in varied pitches, Stan’s voice cracking every fifth word and Bill’s straying farther off-key with each “happy birthday”, but Richie thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard, and said so after they all finished and had clapped for each other.

“Well, I don’t know how to top that,” Stan said. “Mike. Always gotta one-up us. You know, some of us have school and don’t have time to just sit around getting impossibly proficient in every trade.” Mike laughed at this. Stan continued, “But I’ve got you something.” His present was rectangular and a little floppy and Richie knew instantly what it was, or at least the gist of it, but he let Stan go on. “I know you had to sell all your comics to be a martyr or whatever, so this can be the start of your new collection.”

Richie took it from Stan’s hands and tore it open to reveal dark colors, grim lettering, thickly bound pages. “”Arkham Asylum”,” Richie read. “”A Serious House on Serious Earth”. Wow, looks gnarly.”

“It just came out earlier this month,” Stan informed him. “Apparently it’s really creepy. I haven’t read it yet so you’ll have to lend it to me once you’re done.”

“Absolutely,” Richie said, and leaned across the circle to hug him. “You’re the best.”

Ben was next, and Richie unwrapped a book of Shakespeare’s Sonnets. 

“Do you already have it? I was so nervous you already had it, but Eddie said you only had the plays,” Ben said, crackling his knuckles anxiously.

Richie gave him a large, smacking kiss on the cheek. “Haystack, darling, you think of everything. I don’t already have it.” He flipped the book open, scanned his eyes over the table of contents. “You didn’t steal this from the library, now, did you?”

Ben paled. “Of course not! What— why would I— I would _never_ —“

Richie laughed. “Chillax, I know you wouldn’t, I’m messing with you.”

Beverly, in her turn, hefted her backpack into the center of the circle. “Yeah, so, I really couldn’t wrap these. Also, they smell kinda bad, but I’m broke as shit and a thrift store was my only hope, and I miraculously found ones in your size, so you can deal with a little bit of foot stink.” She pulled out a pair of worn blue rollerskates and dropped them into Richie’s lap. “You’re welcome or whatever.”

Richie gazed at them, wide-eyed. He picked them up, looked them all over, gave the wheels a little spin. The laces were fraying and, true to her word, they stank something awful, but when he kicked his sneakers off and shoved his feet in they fit perfectly. “Snug as a bug in a rug,” he declared. “I feel like Cinderella. Oh my god, these are amazing. Let’s go skating right now.” He started to try to stand in them, but Beverly put a hand on his arm and yanked him back down.

“Not here, dumbass,” she said. “You can’t skate on grass, and anyways, you’ll get them dirty. These’ve got those outdoor wheels, though, so you can go up and down your street or whatever. Circle around the cul-de-sac. I don’t care.”

Richie turned to her. “No, no, no. Don’t do that. You’re playing it off like it’s no huge deal. This is huge deal. You’re the best. This is seriously the coolest. It’s ‘cause that’s when you met all of us, right? At the skating rink.”

She shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Oh, stop being so cool and hug me.”

She did.

From Bill, Richie got a small box, which was revealed to be a small, hand-held voice recorder, still in the box. “So you can ruh-record all your jokes when you th-think of them. You could make them into a real r-routine if you wanted.”

Richie turned the box over in his hands. “Jesus, Bill, how much did this cost?”

“D-doesn’t matter,” Bill said. “Do you like i-it?”

“Like it? Gee whiz, Bill, I love it! You got no idea how many jokes I come up with late at night and forget before I can write them down! I’m a comedic genius, really, but nobody’s ever gotten to see my true potential because I’ve been blocked, stymied, cursed by this damn memory of mine. And now you’ve gone and cleared that all up! Nothing’s gonna stop me now from becoming the biggest and best jokester in not just Derry, not just Maine, but the whole land of liberty itself.”

“Dear god, Bill,” Stan said. “What have you done?”

Eddie was, of course, last. Richie turned to him, already glowing, his various prizes scattered around him, and on his feet, and in his stomach. “I seriously can’t think of anything I could want that these losers haven’t already gotten me.”

“I know,” Eddie said. “That was my dilemma. What to get for the boy of my dreams when all my best friends stole my favorite ideas?”

“You got me the whole trip,” Richie said. “You obviously didn’t have to get me anything else.”

“That was Uncle Wilbur,” Eddie argued. “And I’m benefitting from that as much as you are. But, you’re right, I didn’t have to get you anything else, so I didn’t.”

Richie arched an eyebrow.

“I made you something.” Eddie held out a folded up sheet of paper, and then a tape. On the tape was written, in messy pink letters, “Richie’s Mixtape”. The paper contained a list of songs, some of them with lyrics next to them, or little messages. “You know, you’re a mess, Richie. You’re messy. You get your dirty, messy hands all over everything I used to like, like Shakespeare, and Italy, and— and freaking everything, and leave yourself on it. And, you did these to all these songs, and now I can’t listen to them without thinking about you. So, listen to this, and maybe you’ll get what it’s like to be in love with a stupid annoying boy who takes everything good and makes it a million times better, and takes everything bad and makes it beautiful.”

“You are so fucking poetic.”

“I mean, I practiced that. A little.”

“Of course you did.” Richie looked down at the tape, the list of songs, then back up at Eddie. “I think I know.”

“What?”

“What it’s like to be in love with a stupid annoying boy.” Richie laughed, but it was soft, tender. “Thank you. This is the best. Really.”

“Rude,” Stan said.

“Fuck off,” Richie laughed, and kissed Eddie. When he pulled away, he felt strangely close to tears, and had to push it back. Stupid annoying boy. “Hey, um, I love you guys. Thanks for putting up with my bullshit. You’re… you know. I didn’t write a speech like Eds here, so I don’t really know how to… you know.”

Bill nodded. Mike laughed. Stan gave an obliging smile. Ben stopped cracking his knuckles. Eddie took Richie’s hand. And Bev said, “We know.” 

**Author's Note:**

> as promised, here is the playlist so far! i love all of these a lot, and they really fit with different parts of the story:
> 
> Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division  
> Like A Virgin - Madonna  
> I Got You Babe - Sonny & Cher  
> Bigmouth Strikes Again - The Smiths  
> Boys Don't Cry - The Cure  
> Against All Odds - Phil Collins  
> The Promise - When In Rome  
> A Question of Lust - Depeche Mode  
> In Your Eyes - Peter Gabriel  
> I Think We're Alone Now - Tiffany  
> Bring On The Dancing Horses - Echo & the Bunnymen  
> Leave a Tender Moment Alone - Billy Joel  
> Head Over Heels - Tears for Fears  
> Our Lips Are Sealed - The Go-Go's  
> Time After Time - Cyndi Lauper  
> 


End file.
